Ever In My Mind
by MoonFox23
Summary: MalexMale He loved him more than anyone ever could and he was determined to prove it. A chance meeting at the annual Winter's Ball unravels a dark tale of one man's twisted vision of love as he strives to gain the attention of the man he adores.
1. Blood and Ice

Bailey didn't feel very beautiful today. He stood in front of the mirror all afternoon, tugging at his wavy, strawberry-blonde hair. It only went down to the nape of his neck, but it was thick and often got into his eyes, and not in a very dashing way. More like a monster had descended and eaten a quarter of his face, he thought. It would've looked attractive on a woman, but he was most definitely not one and his skin complexion did nothing to help the fact that strawberry-blonde clashed with most everything a man could wear.

"I swear, Bailey, sometimes you act more like a girl than _me_," his older sister teased, striding into the bathroom with her evening gown on. "Now, what do you think of this dress? Will the men like it?"

"I _don't_ act like a girl," Bailey pouted, irritably, but continued to pull at his locks. "And if you're complaining about how you think I act like one, then why are you asking me about what dress you should wear?"

"First of all, I wasn't complaining, dear. Second, you're supposed to be a man, so you should know if this is appealing to your species," she replied.

"I'm your brother, Lizzy. You know that you'll still look like a swamp creature to me no matter what you squeeze yourself into," Bailey said, finally giving up on his hair. Elizabeth slapped him on the back of the head, causing his hair to stick up comically, and left.

"I hate you," he called out the door.

"I hate you too!" came the cheerful reply. Bailey loved his sister. However, he could easily put the blame on her if he had to name the person who had made him paranoid about his appearance. She was three years older than him and had taken to reading to him when they were small. Of course, the only books provided for her were ones having to do with princes and princesses and so forth. In the end, Bailey had turned into a rather hopeless romantic. His goal in life was to make women swoon and then carry them off on a horse into the sunset. Though, they never got any real sunsets in London and Bailey was terrible at riding horses. In fact, Elizabeth was probably more capable of sweeping women off their feet than Bailey was. His parents were incredibly upset about this turn of events because Bailey never seemed to want to marry any of the girls he courted. However, they were going to try extra hard tonight at the Winter's Ball to introduce him to someone with so much wealth and status that he would be sure to marry her. Unfortunately for them, they didn't really know how fairy tales worked.

Bailey smoothed down the destruction Elizabeth had caused before going back into his brightly lit room to find something to wear. In the end, he finally had to embarrass himself by skulking over to his sister's room and asking what color jacket wouldn't make him look as pale as a corpse. She enthusiastically took the opportunity to make fun of him and then stuffed a gray suit into his arms.

Once darkness had settled in for the evening, the family left the extravagant mansion for the ball. Bailey sat alone in his own coach, having planned to go back to his own estate after the ball, hopefully with a girl in tow. The thing about Bailey was that he liked the process of charming a woman, but when they started to get more insistent in the physical department, Bailey gave them a peck on the forehead good night and then tried to avoid them as much as possible. Bailey probably knew the reason for this, but he was taking great care not to even admit it to himself.

When they reached the estate of the hosts of the ball, Bailey held back for a bit so that Elizabeth could properly usher their parents in before they tried to drag Bailey into marriage that night. Bailey rubbed his hands together in the cold, winter air. It was going to be a long night.

Delicate snow flakes and frost consumed the London air, drawing a blanket of blinding white over the gray city of fog. Beautiful glittering stars winking up at those that walked upon them. From the warm safety of a house, winter was a wonderful time of year. Full of magic and inspiration-- especially when one had the money to discover these delights. However, it was quite a different story for the men and women living beyond the wall. The miserable souls who had to work past the freezing temperature just to get some money enough to eat. This was a terrible time of year for those working individuals and also for those... under the table lots.

Cold, numb feet did their best to gallop over the peaks of hard ice lying on the floor, harsh gulps of icy air doing it's best to slow him down by eating away at his tired lungs. He was just so damn _hungry._ So _hungry_ and finally he got a break!

The man skidded to a stop, finding a hiding spot in the alley wedged between two large stores. It wasn't clear if anyone had saw him kill the poor lady. But it never hurt to be careful, now did it? Because after all his efforts, he would have hated to have his victory token taken away from him. It was a shame, though. Killing that poor lady over a loaf of bread?

Ah but how warm it was! And how warm she was, he realized, when his knife stabbed her just below the jaw and through her pretty gaping mouth, the hot, steamy crimson soaking his hands. His skin was so _cold_ in comparison. He had barely noticed it before until then, and after relishing in the comforting heat, was it too strange of him to crave more of it? It should have been a honor to be so carefully cut up the way he had done it instead of being just a mere victim to a theft act. His movements had been so delicate when he pried open her belly and dipped his hands inside, the rest of his jealous body shivering in the cold. But when her body heat had eventually died and she was no longer useful, again he was merciful to her. Ripped out her organs and cut her up he did, then threw the flesh into a leather pouch and offered it to the butcher shops and the meat pie shops, hoping that one or the other would give him some money in return for his good deed. After all, meat had become so scarce and expensive these days. And when they bothered to ask him where such a plentiful amount had come from, why, he simply explained that he caught a stray sheep or cat wandering around and killed it. No one needed to hear any more explanation and no one cared to ask questions about it. Just gave him the lowest amount of money they could get away with and sent him off on his way, muttering to themselves as he did. "Poor crazy, Amon," they laughed, "it's a shame he can't count!"

Handfuls of snow did nice work of washing away the sticky red mess from his hands and favorite blade. A simple knife it was, but oh so close to his heart. It was like family to him. Since he could remember that short little dagger had been with him. It was his only true companion in these dirty streets. It kept him safe, and entertained him! How could he treat such a dear friend wrong?

"Right?" He asked the dagger, running a thumb over it's sleek blade and peering into his own reflection. A pair of honey brown eyes, a single turquoise ring dancing around his pupil, thick, long lashes framing them, powdered in snow crystals along with his curly mass of shoulder length chocolate hair. His whole body was peppered in snow from his dirt smudged face to his torn and tattered black jacket and gray-white shirt and black pants.

"Right." He answered himself. His pale blue lips curved into a small smile, and silently the knife was tucked back underneath his coat and onto his belt. His attention was now on the bread he had bought moments ago, ignored and left to cool on his knee. But no longer. Now he could finally rest a second and eat but... what was that?

Being a curious person, Amon couldn't resist turning his eyes out onto the street as a thin film of people began to gather on the sidewalks, the tops of fabulous horse carriages passing everyone by. Heading to the Winter's ball, no less. Happened every year. But despite that people always stopped (mainly young women) what they were doing in order to properly admire those rich aristocrats and their fancy gowns and perhaps dream of being one of them.

Distractedly, Amon got up off the ground and found a spot up front of the crowd, nibbling the tip of his bread loaf and eyeing the windows of passing carriages until one person caught his attention. He had seen this person millions of times, but it was always just a glimpse. Like a passing thought.

And God was he beautiful...

Amon didn't hesitate following the string of fancy coaches, stalking them from the shadows all the while continuing to eat the snow-glazed bread. There wasn't a plan in his head besides following them all to the party, but once he had gotten there and really saw first hand the huge crowds, and the looming stone castle above them all, well, suddenly he decided he might want to stop and reconsider things.

Nothing was left of the bread besides a few stray crumbs that clung to his filthy scarf, so there was nothing to distract his hands as he sat in the snow behind a grove of trees and thought endlessly of how the _hell_ he was getting in that place. All his hands could do was play with his knife.

He had to get in there. He had to get in! Why did he have to go in? Because he HAD to. There was no other explanation in his heart. So many times he had tried to catch a moment alone with that man. Express how he felt-- tell him everything! But Lord be damned, he never got the chance! Someone always dragged him away, something always happened. He wanted so badly to tear those people away, but it was never of any use. The man always left him willingly.

He craved for his attention and never got it.

Amon bit his bottom lip in anger, almost breaking the skin and making it bleed. If he wasn't so poor, he could... he could do a lot of things. But for now luck was at least on the poor man's side. The street rat slowly got on his feet and crouched, waiting patiently and silently for a coach to come by and slow to a stop. When it did he slowly changed position until he was close enough to the single horse running the coach that he could stick his arm out from the bushes and not get caught doing it, and waited for someone to get dropped off. Excitement made his eyes grow wide and a jackal grin bloom on his mouth. Like he had hoped, a gentleman was in the middle of walking out of the carriage. About his size and with a cape. Excellent.

Before the other could fully hop out, Amon got ready and quickly jabbed his knife into the horse's side, causing it to scream and race down the street, everyone's attention drawn to the wild coach and not on the poor man almost falling out. The aristocrat barely had a second to curse before finding a blade launched into his mouth and a hand throwing him backwards into the tree grove. Amon sat behind him when they landed and smiled down at the gagging face eyeing him from his lap, ignoring the nails desperately trying to scratch his hand off the hilt of his knife.

"Good evening, sir." He chirped pleasantly, the knife twisting in the man's mouth and pressed harder down. If only the man would just die already. He couldn't afford to get blood on the clothes! But when the man didn't die like he wanted, Amon began to frown and finally took the knife out, replacing it in the other's eye socket and finally smashed a hole through his forehead. "My God you're a stubborn fellow." He sighed. He pushed the man's head off his lap and washed up the knife, placing it on the floor and then getting ready to change. When the swap was done and his tired out get up was exchanged for a crisp (if a little wet) black suit, top hat and cape, Amon put the knife under the jacket and began to wash his face. Couldn't be nicely dressed, and ill groomed to a party!


	2. A Kiss Upon The Hand

When Bailey figured Elizabeth had put enough distance between him and their parents, he went inside. The first thing he did upon entering was to glance around to see if there was a particularly attractive girl he could shyly make eye contact with before looking away and acting mysterious and surly for the next hour before actually talking to her. After all, that's how it happened in the stories. He spotted a rather pretty blonde girl and did his part before scampering off to a spot where he was less likely to be seen by his parents. Bailey grabbed a passing glass of wine and sipped it cautiously. He wasn't like Elizabeth who could out-drink any hardened scoundrel at the tavern. It was also rather embarrassing when he got drunk because he became an angry drunk, but managed to not be frightening at all due to his muscle-less figure and lack of any colorful language.

"I haven't seen your face before."

Bailey nearly screamed as the blonde girl he had glanced at before suddenly appeared right next to him. He gave his glass to a servant passing by in case his parents also decided to magically appear by his side and give him a fright.

"Indeed," he replied, hastily, before fleeing into the crowds of people. Oh, she wasn't doing it right at all. It was _way_ too early in the evening for them to be speaking to each other and _he _was supposed to be the one to make the first move. That's how it always went and that's how it always should be! He would just have to find another girl who would cooperate more. That, incidentally, didn't happen. That was his problem, really. He expected too much out of people. He still hadn't realized that real life wasn't a fairy tale and women _had to_ rush a rich, eligible bachelor if they wanted any sort of security for the rest of their lives. These days, love was just a bonus.

"There you are, darling!" came the shrill voice of Bailey's mother. He glared at his sister, who was trailing hopelessly behind their mother and gave him an exasperated look that said, 'It wasn't my fault! She's fast despite being so fat and old!' Bailey let her off the hook since this was, unfortunately, true. "Where have you been hiding all night? There are some absolutely _charming_ people you must meet."

'Charming' meaning 'of good status' and 'people' meaning 'girls'. Now that escape was not an option, Bailey let himself be introduced to most of the women he had already run away from. At last, when it seemed things couldn't get any more awkward, Bailey whispered into his mother's ear that there was already someone he had met and he wanted to go talk to the girl in private so that rumors wouldn't spread too quickly. When his mother asked what her name was, Bailey merely gave her a vague wink, which would be interpreted by his mother to mean 'the girl that she hoped Bailey would end up with that night'. Of course, with that, she let him out of her clutches and her sight. Bailey wasted no time in finding the most secluded corner of the place.

It was an hour into the ball and Bailey was sitting in a small chair in a corner by himself, his head in his hand and dreaming of how the night _should have_ gone.

Tsk. Dammit! Where did he go? One moment he was right there in that specific spot. He took a drink and scampered off somewhere, then that _girl_ was riding him across the room, then another _girl_ and some fat old hag showed up-- now he vanished! Vanished! It was enough to punch someone!

In fact, Amon seriously considered punching someone right about now. Despite the castle's enormous size, the room just felt too small for all these people to be bustling around in it! It just didn't feel right! It had been so very long since Amon had stepped into a building of any kind that just standing there in the middle of those grand, four walls made him feel as crammed and uncomfortable as a barrel of fish possibly would. The bright candles over head set the entire room ablaze in holy light, the beams bouncing off silken dresses of various colors and hairs of various shapes-- it was all very dizzying. Especially with them all twirling and twirling and stepping aside, and twirling again and twirling some more...

"Drink, sir?" Some bored voice asked him and without much attention Amon obliged, and stole two glasses from the bemused servant. He was going to need to drink up if he wanted to keep his nerve in this place. Lucky for him, Amon stomached alcohol fairly well. So well in fact the precious wines here didn't so much as give him a buzz like he thought it should. Ah well. At least he felt much more at ease now. Perhaps he would have better luck finding the mysterious blonde boy.

And so he tried again (after dumping the two glasses somewhere and hearing it snap under a couple's feet on the dance floor, much to their horror) crossing the center of the room reserved only for the waltzing couples without a drop of shame to be measured. Which, of course, put some curious eyes on him. After all, no one at this party recognized the man, and he was so obnoxiously rude no one could help but be somewhat allured.

But their growing gossip meant nothing to him as he walked around the ballroom, his eyes jumping from one figure to another ever so coyly and with such a air about him.

"Why, he's like a tiger, isn't he, Lily? Stalking a prey!"

"Oh, perhaps he's a vampire!"

"Oh my Lily, don't be so foolish! He must be looking for a pretty girl to dance with."

"Well I wouldn't dance with someone so _rude_."

"But imagine! If he's this rude he must be richer than rich!"

It was funny how gossip spread. But at least part of it was true. He was looking for someone, and finally he found him! Sitting all alone in a corner. Why, he looked positively miserable. So much so, Amon for a moment couldn't bring himself to come near him. Simply watched him from afar with his back against a wall and a fresh wine goblet in his hand. What made him so miserable? Was it the girl from before? Had to be! He did look unhappy when she appeared. No one was going to upset his love and get away with it! But... he should really comfort him first, shouldn't he? And talking to him... wasn't that what this whole bloody evening was about?

Coolly, Amon took a light sip from his glass and silently walked up behind the other man, slowly looming over him and placing a hand upon the crown of his chair like he was trying to spy over his shoulder at a book he was reading. "Still awake?" He whispered into his ear, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

"Oh, good Lord!" Bailey gasped, giving a start at the sudden voice in his ear. Even though his heart was beating rapidly with the sudden shock, he couldn't help but think, 'That's what I should have been saying to whichever girl who would've sat in this chair' and then he thought, 'Dear God, I really _am_ a girl, aren't I?' Bailey stood up rapidly, for the feeling of another man that close to his face was rather discomforting and a pink flush rushed to his cheeks in response. He coughed hastily to cover his embarrassment, but succeeded in making himself look even more ridiculous.

"Um…hello. I don't believe my mother has forced me to meet you yet." Bailey laughed nervously before realizing that this was a terrible joke on his part. The poor man was, unfortunately, terrible around men his age, mostly because the extent of his communication skills dealt with those of the female persuasion. He also considered men his age to be a bit of a threat in the grand scheme of wooing women and constantly compared himself to them, though in his mind he always came out lacking in comparison. Self-esteem wasn't really his strong suit. "Ah…I mean…you know, she's…well…Bailey Adams is my name."

Out of desperation and lack of anything to say, Bailey stiffly proffered a hand to the stranger. It took all of his will power to not withdraw his hand, but Bailey couldn't help feeling uneasy around this young man. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't even know the guy, but something about the brunette made Bailey want to go stand in a brighter room amongst lots of other people.

The faint smile only grew the more poor Bailey tried to settle down after his fright, cheeks aflame and manner awkward. It brought such a joyful feeling to his heart for Amon was beginning to mistake his anxiety to back away from him as perhaps a secret fondness that matched his own. Which, of course, was totally off and any normal man would have known that. How could someone love you back if they never met you before? Oh, but such logic was lost for him a long time ago...

Amon subconsciously mirrored the gentlemen in the room as Bailey jumped out of his seat, replacing his once 'barbaric' stance for a more 'dignified' one with his body straight and one arm neatly held behind his back. He didn't utter a word to him as the poor blonde rambled and tried to fight off his nervousness. Simply watched him with admiring eyes and eerie smiles. All he could think about at that point was how _beautiful_ he looked, how _cute, _how _sweet!_ Nothing else mattered until a hand flew out at him partnered with a name. Together, Amon snapped out of his daze.

"Bailey... Adams?" He echoed softly, blinking at the hand before finally accepting it. Not only accepted it, but rose it to his lips and _kissed_ it. "You have a lovely name. My name is Amon." Even after kissing it Amon couldn't bear to let the hand go. The skin was so suple, so pure. So warm! He may never have another chance to touch him. And with that thought in mind, he loosely kept his hand in his, milking it for all it was worth. "Why are you seated all alone?"

Bailey screamed very loudly on the inside. This would've been incredibly romantic if _he_ had been the one kissing and the person on the receiving end was a girl. And preferably not in public. Bailey's eyes dashed frantically from side to side, looking to see if anyone had seen this very unorthodox turn of events. Luckily, he had hidden himself in a pretty secluded corner and most everyone had gone off to dance. The touch of the young man's lips seared the skin on Bailey's hand like fire, making the pink flush on his cheeks turn considerably darker. Swallowing the horrible lump that had formed in his throat, Bailey watched in horror as only Amon's lips left his hand. He had to suppress the incredibly strong urge to jerk his hand out of the other's grasp.

"I…," Bailey said, simply at a loss for the right words to describe just how much discomfort he was in. "I…just needed…a bit of air, that's all."

As he stuttered, Bailey carefully pried Amon's hand off of his own using his free left hand and then dropped it as if it were something slimy and disgusting. Half of Bailey wanted to start shouting about how what just happened was completely inappropriate and how he wondered if the man had any sense of manners at all. However, the other half was quite content with remaining awkward and pretending, in an obvious way, like nothing had happened. And though both halves of Bailey agreed that running away would be the best course of action, his body was incredibly intent on staying frozen to the spot, having been paralyzed by embarrassment and shock.

"Y-you're not going to go dance with any of the l-lovely women here, Mr…? I-is Amon your surname or your given name?" said Bailey in an attempt at casual conversation. Unfortunately, it was blatantly evident that he was in extremely distressed. Whenever he got nervous, he would unconsciously smooth down the hair on the back of his head every fifteen seconds or so. "I've…never heard your name before. Are you not from London?"

Although the disgust was fairly evident, Amon didn't seem to mind getting his hand pried off so dramatically. At least, his expression was hardly phased. Only disturbed by the slightest hint of a pout that was quick to die and reborn as a amused smirk. "Hear something?" He asked quietly, the glass brought back to his lips while his eyes darted from side to side along with Bailey. He didn't see anything. Was he supposed to?

Before long the other man stopped his frantic search for... whatever it was, and so did Amon, smiling like a pleased cat that just got himself a tasty bird. "Dance with lovely girls? Why, no, I have no interest." He explained honestly. There was such a surge in him to blurt out even more than that but a calmer side to his tangled mind reminded him that he should really be more delicate than that. The poor man was shy enough as it was! Oh, but if only he could show him. Prove to him!

The romantic thoughts dancing in his skull all but evaporated as a flash of surprise struck him. Oh no, he had almost forgotten he was supposed to be rich! For all he knew he didn't have a last name, much less a rich, noble family name! What did his name sound like?

"Amon... is a given name. I'm not surprised you don't know who I am. This is my first time visiting England. I'm actually from France, you see." Brilliant! Brilliant! Now if only he spoke French.

"But I'm really not all that interesting." He muttered, putting his now empty glass down on the arm of the cushioned chair beside. "I'd much rather learn about you. Why aren't you waltzing with the women here?"

"Oh, I-I see. I apologize for not knowing you," Bailey mumbled, embarrassed. Ah, so the man is French, he thought to himself. Well, _that_ explained everything, but it still didn't help that he thought it was incredibly odd to have another man kiss his hand. He unconsciously rubbed the back of his violated hand as if he were trying to wipe off the feel of Amon's lips. Then Bailey started to rub it even harder when the young man stated he wanted to learn more about him. Although this was a relatively friendly request, the fact that it had been preceded by an action associated with romantic attraction made it seem like it was coated with subtext. Unfortunately, Bailey's legs still refused to march their way out of the room and his attendance to manners made it impossible for him to leave.

"I'm afraid, sir, that I don't find the women here very agreeable. Well, that isn't to say they aren't fine ladies, it's just that if every one of them is supposed to look like someone my mother wants me to marry, I'm afraid they quite lose their appeal. That is," Bailey added quickly, realizing he sounded like some Don Juan, "I just, um, I'm not, ah…ready for that sort of relationship. Wait, I meant…I mean, I don't really…um, you see, I just haven't found the right one yet."

That was a complete and utter lie, but at least it was better than admitting that he really was some kind of Don Juan. Looking back, he had been with many, many women, but always bailed out on them when they wanted more than just courting and flowers and chocolates and kisses. But it wasn't as if he'd had relations of the intimate nature with them, Bailey rationalized. He certainly wasn't after their bodies or their money. He was just after the romance. And all romance stories always end when the man and woman get married. Perhaps there was "the right one" out there somewhere…and even though Bailey would never admit it, even to himself, that person would not be a woman.

"Well, um, sir, it was good to make your acquaintance, but I'm afraid I need to depart for my manor this evening. There are some, ah, things I need to take care of before tomorrow," he lied. This was probably the most awkward night he had ever had and he was very eager to return to his home, even if it meant being alone and companionless.

"Oh no, please..." His voice hushed absently at the apology, all his attention brought to Bailey's hands suddenly. And just as the strange man appeared completely captivated by their rapid movements, again those absurd eyes snapped back to where they were just a moment ago, and yet another polite smile blossomed on his lips. "Don't apologize." He finished, a hint of laughter in his voice. The other man was rubbing the exact hand he had kissed all throughout their little chat and, of course, a totally different idea as to why crept into mind. Why, he must have liked it! That had to be why. Perhaps he should give him another kiss? Somewhere else, perhaps?

Oh, but just as the brunette stepped closer Bailey ruined the moment for him. Speaking of girls again. Sigh.

Amon stood soberly on his end and listened, tiny buds of nervous hope rooting themselves in his chest. He had to fight off the urge to grab for the other. He hadn't found the one yet! He hadn't! It was a open invitation! For anyone...

Just as happiness came, it was gone again to make room for fickle rage that barely showed itself except in those antsy hands of his, which were currently clenched into tight fists. He hadn't found the one, yes, but the "one" could be mistaken for anyone! Any man or vile wench could snag Bailey away from him. No! No! He wouldn't allow it! He'd sell his soul if he had to (if he had one to give, and did he?), but he wouldn't let anyone else touch _his_ Bailey. No one on this rotten earth could love him as much as he did, and he'd damn prove it!

Wait, what?!

"So soon?!" Amon gasped, his body jerked forward in hopes of grabbing Bailey and changing his mind somehow. Persuade him to stay but... he instead chose to remain silent and stay still. "Alright, it was a pleasure to meet you... Bailey Adams." With a delicate bow, Amon offered a smile but didn't leave. Just in case Bailey changed his mind which he sadly didn't intend to do. No matter. This wouldn't be their parting place this evening. He still had to kiss Bailey good night.

Bailey flinched as Amon jerked toward him, his body tense as if prepared to fight the young man. If he thought kissing another man was okay, who knew what else he thought would be acceptable? However, the moment of panic subsided as the man bowed elegantly to him. Bailey was still wary, but at least the strawberry-blonde didn't look like he was about to scream, 'Help! Rape!'

"Yes, it was…nice meeting you too," Bailey replied nervously. With that, he fled the scene, dodging behind servants and slipping through abandoned rooms until he reached the front door. Looking behind his shoulder, he didn't spot his mother, father, rich women, or very odd young men pursuing him. He stepped silently outside and breathed a huge sigh of relief as he saw his coach waiting for him.

"Take me home, Maurice," he said to his driver as he practically dove into the carriage. The ride back to his manor was uneventful and Bailey contented himself by absentmindedly watching the snowflakes drift past the window. All of the lights were burning in the mansion when he returned and the servants eagerly took his coat and gloves. Although it was warmer inside, it didn't help Bailey's mood. It had been a horrible failure of an evening coupled with a very bizarre and frightening end. At least he could go to sleep and be rid of today, only to start a new one tomorrow, filled with longing, hope, and imaginary romantic sunsets.

Bailey entered the drawing room and sprawled onto one of the high-backed armchairs, unbuttoning his waistcoat so that it hung limply from his shoulders and undoing the top two buttons on his shirt. There was a bottle of brandy on the table next to the chair and Bailey dared to pour himself a glass. It was only there for show or for guests when he had them. However, he felt he needed some right now. Taking a sip of the golden-brown liquid, Bailey nearly spat it back out, but forced himself to swallow the burning stream of fire. Be a man, Bailey, be a man! he thought to himself. As he was trying to be man, he coughed violently as he felt the aftereffects of the brandy. He wouldn't have been surprised if smoke was coming out of his ears.

Bailey sat looking at the flames flickering in the fireplace, carefully sipping his alcohol like a toddler does with his juice, until tiredness overcame him and he drifted off to sleep in his chair.

The young man must have appeared odd (or rather, more odd than usual) to anyone glancing upon him. At that moment he looked simply lost in time, entranced and embraced by some invisible force that just kept him standing there, solid in the middle of the room. No one could imagine all the chaotic noise occupying his head. Voices sprang out from all directions. Each one bound to a separate emotion. Panic, rage, joy, and above all else, obsession. The _need_ and the _want_. The desire for this sort of thing to never happen again. To anyone else, this was all very laughable. But to Amon, he seriously couldn't imagine having to do this any longer. Watch him leave.

Again.

And again.

Never looking back...

Never thinking twice about it...

Over and over in his sick mind, the same scene. But not anymore. He'll change that! He'd never be left behind again. His love and devotion will be proven. The cost of it all meant nothing.

Amon closed his eyes and ticked off the seconds in his mind. At ten he reopened his eyes and quickly dashed after his strawberry-blonde love. All the people and all the sounds of the mansion vanished for him, and for a short while Amon was running about blind and deaf until a arctic wind slapped him hard across the face, and left the brunette lost and confused, standing alone outside in the snow with his eyes glued on the form of a familiar figure jumping into a carriage.

The poor man sighed. _Oh good_, he thought with a childish smile,_ I didn't lose him_.

As the carriage pulled out into the street, Amon followed right behind, his every step careful to keep up, but also to keep some distance. He wanted his visit to be a surprise, after all!

Not only that, but he didn't want some nasty ol' servant to spot him when they finally stopped at the house.

For a long while Amon sat out in the gardens, idly snipping the tips of dry branches off of shrubs with his trusty blade and pouting every so often into his dark and murky reflection, realizing only now that his hat was far gone. When did all this happen? But never mind all that. Look! his mind told him. Look, the lights are out!

Indeed they were when he turned back around to face them. The very sight of the massive house so dark struck his heart with glee and the man bolted up upon his feet, racing immediately to...

...where was he heading?

His dirty finger tips ran along the wall of the house like the noses of blood hounds in search of a fox. One that only they knew of because Amon himself hadn't the slightest clue what he was doing. All he knew was that all this seemed awfully familiar. As though he knew... the servant's door! Ah, here it was. Of course, of course. Everyone knew that rich folks had special doors for their servants! But this one appeared locked.

His knife still clenched in one hand, Amon crouched before the small wooden door and slowly worked the tip of his blade into the wedge between knob and frame, yanking and twisting the knife until chips of wood fell to his feet and the door finally opened without a problem. Closing it again was a totally different matter.

"This house feels strange."

As Amon wandered through the cluttered halls, he couldn't shake the awful feeling of dejavu. The wallpaper, the portraits, even the smell of the house triggered something faint deep inside. However, none of it struck a chord. No forgotten images came to mind in this house, and no voices. Just the tiniest hint of _something_. Something... missing.

The man was hesitant at first to enter the large drawing room, what with the fire cracking and the sliver of someone's arm hanging off a looming plush chair. But the more Amon stood there and observed this unnerving figure, the more he realized that this unexpected person wasn't moving. Could he have been asleep? And who exactly was it? Curiosity tugged at him yet again and slowly he began to gather the courage to come closer. Two steps at first, then four, gradually gathering momentum until he was finally along side the dozing figure in the chair. Once there Amon had to smile.

The street rat gently took the glass in the dozing Bailey's hand away from him, and replaced it upon the tiny table, pausing suddenly, then taking a timid sip from the bottle of brandy sitting there. It was far too tempting for a peasant _not_ to take a sip of such a strong drink. Especially brandy. Warmed the bones.

He licked the liquor from his lips and silently breathed a happy sigh, eyes closed for just a moment. It must be wonderful living here. The comfort of a fire and chair were luxuries he himself couldn't provide for Bailey, but he could maybe buy a house some how. A small place where they could live and be happy. Together.

"You'd like it, Love." Amon whispered. Slowly he kneeled down in front of the other man and gingerly brushed away strands of hair from his face. He had such a angelic look! Ah, but no time to watch him. He had to leave before _they_ came. Should he put him in bed? No, that would only wake him. Such a shame, such a shame.

A careful kiss found its way upon Bailey's lips and the sensation drove a shiver up the other man's spine. As much as he longed to deepen it (among possibly other things), well, he had the self control not to.

"Good night. I love you." He murmured sweetly.

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The next few days had been much warmer than he was used to. The snow and frost on the ground had become something like a slush, which reminded Amon of mashed potatoes with gravy, which reminded him of food and how hungry he was. And somehow of Bailey.

Bailey, Bailey, Bailey, Bailey, Bailey-- his mind was plagued by his name! Not that he had never spent days and days thinking of him, but now that he had the opportunity to meet him face-to-face, why, he was even more fixated on him! Especially his name! Bailey Adams. Bailey Adams! Bailey Adams...

"Bailey," Amon smiled fondly down at the knife smiling back at him. Dirty fingers ran along it's crisp edges and left behind slug trails of blood that trickled down and spotted his dress pants in brownish red.

The warm weather brought on many shoppers which was terrible news for Amon.

"Shoo, shoo!" The bakers hissed.

"Get away from here!" Shouted the tailors.

"You're not welcome here!" Screeched the butchers.

Ah yes, now that the weather was getting a touch warmer Amon wasn't allowed to stay anywhere. Lord forbid a potential buyer noticed a sick homeless man near your shop! The poor man couldn't even sit on the edge of the sidewalk without catching the eyes of many disgusted individuals. But this was the price he had to pay for lingering in such a rich neighborhood.

"Bailey lives here. I have to stay." He reminded his dangerous companion as he rose to his feet. Behind him a angry shoe maker stood with his hands on his hips. Where to now?

It was on his way to the small park near by when he heard it. It hit him like a shot of ice cold water. A voice like a angel crying, "flowers! Flowers for sale!"

The voice belonged, upon further observation, to a little blonde girl. The flowers she was selling wasn't real flowers, but what appeared to be flowers made out of paper.

"Flowers, sir?" She asked sweetly to him. Amon stammered. How long had he been standing still?

"I-I have no money."

"Oh..." With a disappointed look the child pulled a single paper flower from her bouquet and offered it to the brunette saying, "that's okay, sir. You don't have to pay."

His heart must have stopped right there. Taking the flower daintly in his dirty hands, Amon was practically gawking at the small child as she smiled at him and left, continuing her cry.

"Flowers! Would anyone like to buy some flowers today?"

Amon didn't take his eyes off her. She was so delicate and precious. Her kindness was so raw and pure. Everything about her was like music! The romantic image of--

Later into the afternoon there was no longer any sign of the young flower girl in the park. Nor was she to be found in the streets or at home. Oh, but who cared for such petty things? The rich certainly didn't notice some little peasant girl gone missing.

And how could they when there was so much better news? Like the mysterious gift that found it's way into sir Bailey Adam's desk when no servant (at least that was what they said, but aristocrats knew better) had ever seen it before, much less put it in Master's room. But as mysterious as the little bundle was all splattered red and white and covered in lace, no one wanted to spoil the surprise of what laid inside it. It was obviously from an admirer! Why, just look at the love letter on top...


	3. Hearts and Flowers

The morning after the ball had not been a pleasant one for Bailey. His back ached from sleeping in the armchair, his head felt like it would burst open like a watermelon, and by the time he had staggered into a cleaner suit, one of the servants had informed him that there had been a break-in near the servants' quarters. Of course, even as she showed him the wood chips lying on the floor next to the unlocked door, Bailey hardly registered anything beyond the fact that she was talking too loudly. A mumbled command to get the door fixed was issued before the matter was completely forgotten in the wake of finding a pillow to bury his head in for about an hour.

As the weather became more favorable, Bailey found ample excuses to avoid coming face-to-face with his questioning mother. Of course, she still sent him letters inquiring as to his relationship with the women he had met the night of the ball, but they all were doomed to the same fate of lying as ash in Bailey's fireplace. On one occasion, a young woman from the ball had come to his doorstep asking to see him, but she had hastily fled when one of the servants informed her that the master had contracted a rare disease on his previous trip to the Mediterranean that caused him to break out in large boils that eventually popped and oozed pus all over the place and they didn't know if it was contagious or not and would she like to go up to see him? The servant had gotten a day off for that one.

Bailey's sister also managed to sneak away from their parents to tell him of their mother's latest plans to back Bailey into a corner where marriage was the only escape. It seemed that his days would be wonderfully free of prowling bachelorettes with Elizabeth as his partner-in-crime, but that all changed on her latest visit to the manor.

"I'm going to leave for Paris tomorrow with Uncle Charles and Auntie Jane," she said bluntly as they were taking their afternoon tea. Bailey choked on his cake.

"What? You're leaving me?" he said once he had recovered. She nodded without a trace of sympathy. "But what about mum! If she has her way, I'll be married by the time you get back!"

"Bailey, have you even considered that it might be worthwhile to try and find a girl that you actually think you'd be able to spend the rest of your life with? I'm not always going to be around to pick out your suits, my dear. And I won't allow you to go breaking hearts for the rest of your life just so you can have a good time. It's simply bad taste."

"Well, maybe I'll just stay a bachelor for the rest of my life!" Bailey pouted, stuffing more cake into his mouth. Elizabeth shook her head, but not unkindly.

"Bailey, you're the only son in the family. Do you really think you have any say in the matter?" She reached over and patted his hand. "And you don't have to love her, Bailey. You just have to like her enough to bring yourself to churn out a few children."

He gave her a horrified look and she stared back for a long time. Of course she knew, he thought. Being inseparable meant that you didn't have any secrets. He finally dropped his gaze and stared at the sleek, silk napkin in his lap.

"You wouldn't want a husband who didn't love you," he grumbled after a while.

"Of course not! Why do you think I'm going to Paris? For the weather?" Elizabeth snorted. "Fairy tales are nice, Bailey, but in this world, you have to work hard if you expect to get a happy ending."

His sister took this opportunity to devour her cake, looking quite pleased with herself. It seemed the prospect of meeting handsome Parisian men eclipsed any concern for Bailey's social well-being in London.

"Oh!" Bailey exclaimed suddenly. France! "Elizabeth? Do you know of anyone well-known from France with the given name Amon?"

"Amon? No. Why?" she asked, puzzled. Bailey bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.

"I met a…gentleman at the ball and he said he was surprised that I did not know who he was."

"Well, I certainly haven't heard of anyone called Amon," Elizabeth replied. "Perhaps I am just as uninformed as you, if that's even possible. I will Uncle and see if he knows."

Soon after that, Elizabeth bade her brother farewell, leaving Bailey to reminisce about the young man he had almost forgotten about in the whirlwind that was his mother. Amon…yes, he had been a strange fellow. Bailey flushed as the sudden memory of a kiss on the hand flashed in his mind. He sincerely hoped that Elizabeth would not bring him back with her.

"Master?" Bailey was jolted from his thoughts as he turned to face the servant coming down the stairs. He unconsciously smoothed down the hair on the back of his head, looking as if he had been caught doing something naughty.

"Yes? What is it, Lydia?" he asked, a little too hastily. However, his embarrassment quickly faded when he saw the look on her face. "What is it?"

"There's…," her gaze flickered toward the second floor from where she had come, "something in your desk, master. I was…I had noticed a stain on the drawer and…I…I think there's something in there, master."

"I told you not to look through my things, Lydia," Bailey said, but his voice was completely devoid of reproach or scorn. At this point, it was merely a formality. He could feel his heart beating fast against his form-fitting waistcoat. The paleness of the girl's face alarmed him and he noticed that her grip on the banister was turning her fingers white. Bailey licked his dry lips and forced himself to ascend the staircase.

"You may go back to your quarters, Lydia," he said sharply as she made to follow him. Although she did not move from her spot on the stair, she continued to watch Bailey as he reached the top of the stairs and moved swiftly down the hall to his room, her hands clutching her apron tightly. As Bailey reached his own room, his pace slowed and he peeked cautiously through the crack in the doorway. Lydia had only said there was something in his desk drawer, but Bailey acted as if there were a stranger lying in wait for him to enter. Breathing heavily, he opened the door slowly and crept silently into the room, his shoes making light clicking sounds on the lacquered wood floor. His beautiful mahogany desk stood across from his bed, gleaming in the afternoon light. One of the drawers was only open an innocent crack, but there was indeed a sinister smudge of something darker on the top edge of the immaculately carved drawer. Reaching out a shaking hand, Bailey carefully opened it all the way, standing slightly back as if whatever was in it would suddenly spring out. The first thing he saw was a letter. Bailey breathed a sigh of relief. Well, it was just a letter. But as he picked it up, his fingers brushed against something soft. Underneath the letter was a bundle wrapped in lace that was blotched with red. Bailey's muscles tensed again slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement as to what it could be. Not entirely willing to find out, he turned his attention once again to the letter. He unfolded the paper gently, the crackling sound puncturing the thick silence that filled the room. Bailey read the letter.

As his eyes moved from left to right and down the page, they became wider and wider and the pink flush in his cheeks slowly drained from his face at the same rate. His lips were parted in anticipation; whether for an exclamation of disbelief or even for a scream. A gasp like a released arrow exploded in the air as Bailey's gaze roved over the final period and the letter fluttered to the ground as he clapped a hand to his mouth. His other hand gripped the back of the armchair, holding on for all it was worth in order to support Bailey's weight as his knees threatened to give out. The bright blue of Bailey's eyes stood out marvelously as they were surrounded by a vast expanse of white. All he could stare at was the bundle sitting quietly in the drawer. He knew what it was. The letter had told him what it was. The crimson flowers that blossomed over the delicate fabric told him that the letter spoke true. And yet, he still couldn't believe it until he reached out his violently shaking hand and removed the lace. The white chrysalis gave birth to a great, glistening ruby that tumbled out onto the polished surface of the desk with a noise like a wet snowball being dropped on the kitchen floor, its juices soaking into the fibers of the papers beneath it. Bailey's mouth opened and closed without a single word before he finally managed to scream. Running steps grew louder and louder until several servants appeared in the doorway.

"Good God, is that a heart?" cried an elderly servant. It seemed the confirmation of the object in front of him was what Bailey had been waiting for all along and he promptly passed out.

Bailey was suddenly awoken by the incredibly unpleasant odor of smelling salts. Blustering and shooing away the servants around him, he sat up and found himself on the guest room's bed. Disoriented, he looked about the room, wondering how he had gotten there and why everyone was standing over him. Then it hit him. And then he threw up. Of course, the servants had been anticipating this due to their master's delicate nature and proffered a bucket just in time to save themselves from scrubbing away at the sheets for hours.

"Dear God…what…what," he gasped, wiping his mouth unceremoniously with the back of his hand.

"It seems you have a secret admirer, sir," the elderly servant stated. Bailey looked at him in disbelief. "I took the liberty of reading the letter, sir, if you'll forgive me. It seems a lunatic found her way in and put that ghastly thing in your desk, sir. We have informed the police inspectors and they are looking into the matter. For the time being, they have installed several watchmen to patrol the manor during the evenings."

Bailey fell back onto the bed, clutching his chest and putting a hand over his eyes.

"Good. Good. Very good, William," he said, weakly. "Have you…have you disposed of it?"

"The inspector took it with him, sir, as evidence. And we have ordered you a new desk, sir."

"Have you told my mother?" Bailey asked, sitting up suddenly.

"No, sir. I thought I'd leave that up to you if you wished to do so," the servant replied. Bailey shook his head.

"No need…no need to trouble her about this sort of thing. What time is it?"

"Nine 'o' clock, sir. In the evening."

"I see. Leave me, all of you. I need…I need to rest." The servants filed out and closed the door behind them. Bailey sat on the bed for some time before noticing the curtains drawn over the balcony window. He quickly leapt off the bed, parted the curtains, and latched the doors as if that would keep him safe. Bailey collapsed into an armchair and put his head in his hands, all thoughts of his social troubles completely absent from his mind.

Just as Bailey was finally starting to doze off in the guest room's armchair, a soft knock at the door made him jump and nearly knock over the chair. William poked his balding head around the door.

"Sir, what would you like me to do with the letter?" he asked. It took Bailey some time to figure out what William was talking about, but when he did, he immediately turned an unpleasant gray-green.

"Just…just give it to me, William." William nodded and stepped into the room, letter in hand. He gently handed it over to the shaking Bailey who took it reluctantly; as if it were a cat he needed to treat for rabies. When the servant left, Bailey held the letter loosely in his hands and stared at the far wall for fifteen minutes, his face blank and still pale. Finally, he looked down at the piece of paper resting on his lap, swallowed the bile that was trying to make its way into his mouth, and opened it. The letter was just as horrifying as he had remembered it, but this time he read all the way through. A signature.

"Amon?" he said absentmindedly to himself. It wasn't until a few seconds later that he nearly knock over his chair again as he leapt to his feet. Amon! The man at the ball! This had to be the same person. Who else in London was named Amon? There was no one he knew that knew an Amon and the only one Bailey knew of was the one he had encountered the night of the ball. A shiver ran down Bailey's spine as he recalled the young man's breath ghosting over his ear and his lips brushing his hand. Yes, it certainly fit. Bailey paced the room, staring at the signature blazing up at him from the sheet of paper.

"William!" he called and the servant dashed into the room, looking about in case there was another heart to dispose of. "Tell the watchman on guard to come at once."

When the watchman had arrived, Bailey shared his new discovery and soon enough, wanted posters for the murderer "Amon" were put up over the city, offering a large sum if the man was caught. However, this did not comfort Bailey in the least. Over the next few days, he suffered from paranoia and anxiety; jumping at shadows, sleeping with numerous candles around his bed, fearfully opening every drawer he encountered. Not even the watchmen guarding the manor could ease his mind. At this point, he was even grateful for the company his mother kept sending him. Obviously, they were mostly potential spouses, but it was better than no one at all. However, there was one day that she had sent a gentleman around to Bailey's manner. Oliver Smith was the twin brother of one of the girls Bailey's mother had picked out, though she wasn't a favorite due to being less rich than the Adams, and they had been invited to drop by the manor without Bailey's consent. When he had peeked through the lace curtains of the study, Bailey didn't even think about pretending to have some exotic disease. He would've liked to say that the girl was particularly attractive and that he liked her company, but it became increasingly evident that the company he truly valued was that of her brother's. Oliver was the tall, dark, and handsome of the nineteenth century. Wavy, raven locks framed his pale, clean-shaven, heart-shaped face and he easily towered over Bailey in stature. Every week, Bailey played host to him, regardless of whether or not the sister was available. Whenever he would leave Bailey's manor, the young master of the house would stand at the window, watching the carriage speed off into the distance; the paranoia and fear returning to replace the warmth of the Oliver's presence.

"Did you know I got a love letter about a month ago?" Bailey ventured one day as he and Oliver were sitting in the drawing room. Oliver was at the pianoforte, playing softly, and merely made a noise to signify he recognized Bailey was speaking. "It was very frightening at the time, but it's rather funny now that I look at it. Would you like to read it?"

Oliver shrugged absentmindedly, but Bailey read this as, 'Oh, please show me because I can't believe that someone else could be after your affections other than me, but I'm going to act unconcerned about it because that sort of thing is just not done in society.' Of course, Oliver was just wondering how he could get Bailey to send him a pianoforte. Disappearing for a moment, Bailey went to retrieve the letter from its hiding place and came rushing back down, slowing down as he came into Oliver's view and trying his best to look nonchalant.

"There it is," he said, tossing the letter down in front of the other man. Oliver took the letter and opened it, read it, and laughed.

"This is complete rubbish," Oliver smirked. "Who could possibly be that sickeningly desperate for you? What's all this about a heart as well?"

"Oh, well, there was a drawing of a heart underneath the letter," Bailey lied while trying to keep the image of a grotesque, crimson lump out of his mind. "Perhaps if this person is of good enough status for my mother, she'll make me marry her."

"Well, my sister is definitely not insane, so I'd suggest you stick with her," Oliver replied, tossing aside the letter and placing his fingers back on the piano. This wasn't quite the direction Bailey had in mind.

"If you were a lady, Oliver, what would you think of me? Hopefully not quite like this person," Bailey said, gesturing to the letter.

"What sort of question is that? You don't need my opinion. My sister already likes you. Do you think you'll court her?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bailey replied exasperatedly, giving up. That evening, Oliver left for his own manor and Bailey was left to fume about the turn of events earlier that day. He knew he shouldn't expect anything from the young man, but the romantic part of him dreamed of a world where it would be possible. Or, at least, a world where there were secret love affairs and how his knight in shining armor would destroy all of the demons and shadows haunting Bailey. He tossed and turned that night, too preoccupied with imaging what could have happened if things had gone the way Bailey wanted them to that day.


	4. You Are Ever In My Mind

"Jus' doesn't make sense. Amon a murderer? He's jus' too damn stupid to kill anybody! Got to be somebody else."

"Since when did people need intelligence to kill?"

"Oh, well, you can't blame him, in his blood you know. They say his family has been cursed for centuries."

"Because of that I should pity him?! I hope he's caught and killed immediately, the bastard."

"It was God's will that he was born to that family, John. Not his."

"You're defending him? He might've killed somebody! God knows how many!"

"Give me that poster. Did it happen to say?"

"No…"

None of the three men arguing outside the tailor shop happened to notice an awkwardly tall woman stagger by, her thin cane hardly touching the ground as she scurried. Or perhaps it was an old man? Whoever it was, they were moving far too quickly within the crowds of people walking the streets this morning for anyone to actually catch a glimpse of them. Not that it mattered. What with the many posters hung all over town advertising a killer in their midst, a pang of paranoia spiked in the hearts and minds of London's citizens. Women huddled together and traveled in larger groups now while men kept their wits about them. All eyes roamed the streets, hungrily searching for the beggar Amon whom was the prime suspect as far as they were concerned. After all, the citizens knew of no one else by the outlandish name Amon. So then, no body cared for an old bat walking down the street.

"Watch it, you!" A factory worker snapped as the old bag smacked into him. Anxiously, the woman stumbled back and circled the large man, saying not a word and paying his angry glare no heed as she sprinted into the closest alley available.

A breathless gasp escaped her as she smacked her back against the grimy brick wall at the far end of the alley, her legs losing the power to keep her body up and allowing her to slide down to the filthy floor below. For a few minutes the figure rested silently with her head bowed until finally her chin rose up and her hands flew to the ugly wool shawl over her head, pulling it down to her shoulders and revealing a mess of chocolate hair and strangely colored eyes. Amon let out a soft cough and pulled the scratchy cloth off of him, letting the winter winds dry the sweat from his brow. Oh God, what had happened? Why, why was he being called a murderer?

It had all happened so suddenly. Everywhere, everywhere his name written in such hateful writing! What had he done to disserve such malice? What had he ever done…

"Bailey…"

Honey and blue eyes squinted towards the sky. As always that beautiful name sprung into mind like a lightning strike and his heart reacted like the thunder, jumping at the name and sending a sweet wave of pain dancing in his chest. Flashes of reddish hair, memories of clean, soft skin…

With a childish gaze, Amon's eyes left the sky and fell on his own hands. Dirt and dry blood clung to every inch of him. His hair was matted with dirt and sweat, and his clothes were baggy, filthy and full of holes. He could feel the swell of shame deep inside as he pondered on the differences between himself and his beloved Bailey. Bailey was clean, soft, breathtaking… but what was he?

"A rat," he confirmed, his lips slightly parted and his eyes half closed in a dreamy state. "A rat dressed like a woman." He added and he suddenly slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. His face flushed a burning crimson at the horrible reminder. Yes, it was a mortifying situation but what other options did he have? If he resumed dressed like a man (like he knew he was) it would only make things easier for everyone to point him out on the street. As a woman, and an old one at that, no one would bother to investigate any further than necessary.

Oh, but attaining this disguise was so needlessly difficult just like everything else. He was getting so tired of these struggles, so exhausted of living. If it were not for Bailey… well, he didn't know what he would do. He couldn't even remember life before the strawberry-haired boy. The aristocrat was the only thing keeping him going at a time like this. The man was like a symbol! While others held onto the holy cross to give them strength during their times of need, Amon depended on Bailey for the same comfort. But where was his beloved? These days it was rare to find him in the city. He remembered some people gossip that a lunatic left behind a heart or some other grotesque object in his room some nights ago and now the lad was afraid to leave his house. But Amon was quick to dismiss such lame ideas. He knew he was the only one who gave him that present, the posters confirmed it, and he also knew Bailey cherished it. At least, in his mind he did. In his mind Bailey accepted his token of affection and loved him even more for it! In his mind, in his mind…

Where was he, then? Was the true purpose behind the posters to call him forward, get him to come back to the mansion? It wasn't like Amon never tried to break in again but nowadays he found strange men standing guard outside the mansion. Suppose such a thing was a test? Something to prove himself with? Oh, he just didn't know anymore. His body was weak from hunger and exhaustion. All he wanted to do was rest. At the same time, he wanted to see Bailey. He _needed_ to see him.

His hand ran down the front of his face to his mouth and lingered there for a while as he tried his best to think. Beside him his fingers curled and uncurled around a lump of sharp ice, crushing it and molding it into an irregular shape. Anxiety, tension—Lord, he had to see him. He was being called for! He could hear his voice on the wind. Calling him, calling him… laughing. Like a child's laughter. Lullabies…

It had been decided before his brain could even register his body's actions. His wool shawl was pulled back up to shield his face from the world, and silently, the man slipped out from the safety of his alley and headed off to the Adam's family home. His empty stomach fueled by sheer determination, daydreams and psychotic obsession. He had to see Bailey, he had to see him, he had to see him, he had to, he must. He must.

He must have been walking for hours in that half awake daze of his. Almost nothing snapped Amon out of his phase as he journeyed to that tall house. Not until he heard some suspicious cooing passing him by.

"Did you see that? Lucy, I do believe that boy is in love!"

A woman's shrill laughter managed to pierce the bubble separating the man from the rest of the world. Curiously, he listened wanting to know who she spoke of. Self consciously, he wondered if it was him. Had he bore such a look as he walked? Never mind the fact that she had clearly said 'he'.

"Don't say such foolish things."

"Oh, but really now. Don't you find it a tad bit suspicious?"

"I agree. Sir Adams as of late seems so strange!"

_Adams?!_ Darkness seemed to evaporate in an instant. All around him the sun shone bright in orange skies and the world was made real again, the old Adam's house standing near by as elegantly as ever. Immediately Amon stopped walking and looked behind himself with a horrified expression towards the servant girls chattering and walking away from him.

"He seems more interested in courting that man Oliver than his sister! Just look at him standing at the window! Did you see that, Betty?"

Amon's heart beat slowed to a near stop. "What?" He breathed, the color draining from his face as he turned around to find the window one of the ladies had mentioned. His eyes jumped from one to another in a frantic search, his mind praying for a reason to accuse the wench of lying, but, alas, there he was just as she described. Standing at the window with such a look of misplaced sadness and longing. But where the man was staring was Amon's real concern, and what Bailey was staring at was a small coach… a_ man_ climbing into it. He didn't need any confirmation to tell him anything. His jealousy had already decided. This was Oliver. This was the man trying to steal Bailey away from him, trying to make him forget. This, this--!

His cane fell immediately, but he didn't hear it. His palms were beginning to bleed from the pressure of dirty nails digging into them, but he didn't feel it. The world around him was beginning to turn red. Like plain white paper falling onto a puddle of blood, the images around him became tainted and distorted. Soon all Amon _could_ hear and feel was merely fantasy. The haunting screams of women, the sounds of shattered glass and brass church bells. The feel of the _heat _as it ate away his skin. The burning—the painful sensation of hate! Of pure hate! It consumed him like the devil's fire and seduced him with beautiful images of mangled corpses and pleading shrieks.

For the first time in a long time, the name Bailey was the farthest from his mind.

And everything fell to black…

Somehow he remembered tracking the coach. When the sun was just beginning to hide behind the tree tops, Amon had finally managed to stop the carriage from leaving the woods it was passing through. He had tricked the driver, he recalled, into thinking that a woman had suddenly fallen onto the road directly in front of his horse. With no one else around at this time of night, and this path dangerously secluded only for those specifically traveling to Sir Oliver's house, the man stopped to come help him. His good deed ended with a violent crack of bone. The poor fellow was on the ground before he knew it. Amon in his rage didn't give the driver much attention as he tore his knife out from the side of his head and got on his feet yet he remembered him in great detail, from the wide, swollen eyes to the exact pattern the blood made as it dripped down his face onto his gray tongue. Then… then he remembered meeting Oliver. He climbed in the carriage, yes that was it, and pounced on the young boy before he could make it out the door on the other side.

Yes, yes, he remembered. The words were all but a muffled sound now but he could remember everything in pictures and motion. But his favorite memory of him must have been how he looked near the end. Bound by his shawl and just laying there, battered and trying to scream past a broken, limp jaw. He had said such horrible things to the boy. If he didn't hate him so much he might have felt sorry that those were the last words he would ever hear. How much he was despised. Over and over… how much he was hated. How passionately he was hated. "You think I'm a rat too, don't you?"

There were tears running down the boy's bruised face as Amon began to finish breaking his knees. He could see it even in the darkness of night, all those glamorous tears. When Amon felt confident that Oliver wasn't about to make a fuss anymore, with the utmost detachment, the peasant went to work undoing the man's trousers. "Oh, don't lie." He sighed as Oliver tried to scream again. Angrily, he stabbed the hilt of his knife into his eye. Unfortunately the hilt was much too wide to fit into the socket but it got him quiet enough for Amon to finish undressing him. And when that was over, well, he didn't much dwell on that part of the torture. He supposed he was much too angry to pay attention to the way the other man screamed and sobbed. If he was to ever do this again, he'd much rather have Bailey underneath him.

"Would you like to see how hollow your heart really is?" He breathed into the moist air, smiling wickedly and roughly pulling out of him. Amon took the knife stabbed into one of Oliver's legs earlier and replaced the tip of it on the center of the other's heaving chest. He didn't wait for an answer, simply went on cutting.

The peasant couldn't really recall whether or not Oliver had actually stayed awake long enough to see that ruby he pulled out of him. Hard as he tried to keep him alive to see, the pain was too much in the end. But Amon liked to hope that he did get to see it. See his chest cut open and his heart ripped out of place behind broken ribs. Even in the dark Amon could tell the heart was still beating after he had pulled it out, the black ink splashing on his face and down on the other's body. He smiled, looking down at him. "There, you see? You're just like me." He laughed. "You're just as filthy as I am."

Once the anger was gone, Amon couldn't help the feeling of… ice. Never had he felt so empty. Rather, he forgot exactly how empty he felt alone in the world without Bailey. There was a feeling of illness rooted in his stomach that he couldn't get rid of. The taste of betrayal slept on his tongue and the man didn't know whether to break down and cry out all the excess emotion or simply walk it off.

"I want to write Bailey a letter, mister." He explained to the fallen coach driver, the heart pried out of Oliver nestled in his arms like a precious child. His eyes stared down at the snow powdered man and waited, patiently, for an answer. None came, and he nodded his head. "I'm sorry," he sighed. On his knees, Amon put the heart down and began to dig around the man's clothes for anything he could use to write a letter. All he found was some pounds, but that was good enough.

The next morning Amon bought himself a little wooden box, a piece of paper and a envelope, and after asking to borrow someone's pen, Amon proceeded to write Bailey a little poem and delivered his presents to the head butler of the house. The heart in a box and the poem. The moment the door closed he ran. And within that innocent envelope he wrote,

_I've been racing for you, Love.  
You are the one thing I could count on  
even if your apathy was what I expected.  
Oh darling, I waited and waited to feel your footsteps  
and to hear your breath,  
but maybe I just wanted someone to wait for…_

_You are ever in my mind,  
you were behind my soul each time  
I held it to the flame.  
You are ever in my thoughts.  
I'd leave a room of angels  
just to be alone  
if only to say your name.  
I never told you I needed you, Darling  
like a flower needs the rain.  
How could you possibly know how much I cared for you?  
So I reach for your love  
like the moon and the stars,  
ever in my sight,  
ever out of touch._

_There's a light of a holy kind,  
I think it comes from somewhere  
up in the sky or from some far off lovely place,  
but this light never, ever shone on me, Darling.  
At least as far as I could see…  
So I sat in the dark and I watched you,  
but now, I just cry to myself  
when there's no one around  
and I teach myself to walk backwards  
out of any given situation.  
Yes, I can be graceful and try to run away,  
you don't even have to say goodbye.  
But I'll be right here if you want me to._

_I could paint your portrait  
if I never saw you again and  
when I am old, someone may ask me if I ever loved,  
and I will speak but they won't recognize  
my words, they'll say I'm telling lies.  
And maybe I am,  
maybe I am.  
All I know is you are ever in my mind._

_Amon_

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((The poem was actually a editing of Emilie Autumn's song Ever. I felt the song suited Amon's thoughts and feelings so I don't take credit for the "poem". Hope some of you like this story. :P Its being done with another person. I play Amon, she plays Bailey. Tell me what you think so far.))


	5. Revolver

((Sorry for the long wait, guys! Some things came up.))

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"Master?"

Bailey snapped out of his daydream to find old William standing in the doorway of the drawing room. The young man licked his lips guiltily.

"Yes, what is it?" Bailey stammered slightly, his eyes immediately drawn to the box delicately held in the servant's hands.

"This was left on the doorstep, sir. I heard a knock, but no one was there when I answered it," the servant replied. His mind still clinging to the daydream, Bailey briefly wondered if it was from Oliver, but a ghost of a tiny, bleeding heart drifted through his memory and he suddenly wondered why the messenger had disappeared so swiftly.

"Leave it on the table, William," Bailey said, suddenly sitting up straight. The old man did as he was told and slowly left the room, glancing worriedly at Bailey before shutting the door. Bailey stayed where he sat for a long time, staring blankly at the box as the glaring sunlight shone off of the tan surface. He hadn't noticed it when William had been holding it, but there was also a tidy envelope sitting on top of the box. A letter and a box. There had been a letter along with the last "present" as well. But maybe it _was_ just a present from Oliver. It might've even been a present from Elizabeth. A souvenir from France or something of the sort. No need to start panicking over every present you get, Bailey thought to himself. He needed to be more of a man, for godssakes! With a new resolve to prove that he wasn't afraid of a shadow, Bailey stood up abruptly and marched over to where the box sat innocently, its simple design clashing with the lacquered, elaborate table beneath it. _Don't hesitate_, Bailey thought desperately to himself. _Just open the letter and read it! You don't even have to open the damn box!_

However, just when he reached out his hand to pick up the envelope, Bailey stopped. His trembling fingers hovered millimeters away from it and he cursed himself. So much for manliness. His shadow now fell across the box and the sun shone brightly in Bailey's strawberry blonde hair. Such an atmosphere hardly constituted any more reason to be frightened of a silly little letter. Bailey pursed his lips and suddenly grasped the letter, almost crushing it in his grip. He hadn't meant to pick it up so forcefully and he blushed slightly in embarrassment despite the lack of company. Unnecessarily clearing his throat, Bailey attempted to feign nonchalance as he opened the envelope with his still shaking fingers.

_Master Bailey! Master Bailey!_

Bailey wanted it to be Oliver that called him "Love" and "Darling". But the black ink could hardly disguise the poison coating every letter and seeping into his hands as the horrible truth welled up in his brain.

_Master Bailey! Don't you know? Have you heard?_

Such beautiful words. Oh, such beautiful words. And he hated them. He loathed them. The fear and the paranoia and the hope all crumbled and fell off of the young man's features. The paper crackled in his fists and now his whole body was shaking. What had he done? Why was this happening to him? That bastard! He didn't even need to hear the words spilling forth from the maid's mouth like vomit. He already knew. The door burst open and an excited young servant with tousled blonde hair breathlessly entered.

"Master Bailey! Have you heard? Mr. Smith was found dead with his heart cut out!"

The girl had hardly finished her last word when Bailey, in one movement, violently swept the little wooden box off the table with a cry full of hate for himself and for the monster who had dared to lay eyes on him. The box barely missed the girl and it slammed into the wall, popping open and releasing its treasure, bleeding red. The maid screamed and ran from the room.

"It's his heart! It's his heart! Oh, dear Lord, it's his bloody heart!" Her shrieks echoed throughout the manor, but more so within Bailey's head.

"GODDAMMIT!" he screamed, lashing out at the table that the box had been resting on. The armchairs were thrown backward and the vases were smashed, but even as shattered, the noise still couldn't drown out Amon's words nor those of the servant girl. However, his anger was too much for his feeble body and he soon collapsed near an upturned sofa, sobbing into the wooden frame. His knuckles were bleeding from striking all the furniture within reach and the blood smeared onto his cheeks or joined salty tears in their journey south. There were no words he could possibly utter that would cover the extent of his self-loathing. It was all his fault.

"No," he growled to himself, his teeth clenching. No. It was that godforsaken _murderer_. He pulled himself up and ran to his quarters, ignoring the questions being shouted at him from every direction. He flung open the doors and ripped the drawer right out of his desk. Bailey snatched up the revolver he had never used before and sped toward the front door. A few of the braver servants stepped in his path or took hold of his sleeves.

"Master Bailey," cried William. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm going to bloody kill that rat bastard!" Bailey snarled, his face still covered in red streaks.

"You can't do that, sir!"

"Then I'll send for him!" he replied, turning sharply around so that they all jumped back.

"Master, he has proven to be a very dangerous person! You can't invite him in and expect any of us to stay alive! Think of your health, sir!" The servants reached for Bailey's arms once more, but found the barrel of a revolver swiveling around to meet them.

"Don't you dare. Don't you DARE try to stop me!" he yelled at them and for a moment, the look of a bullied toddler crossed his handsome features as more tears leaked out. His servants backed down with nothing but pity in their eyes as they watched their master dash out the door.

It had already been established that Bailey was a lost cause with horseback riding, something that his sister Elizabeth had given up on teaching him. However, in his blind rage, there was obviously not much room for rational thought. In other words, common sense. He did manage to get on the horse, but he was probably going to have to take a very, very cold bath afterward. By the time he reached town, he was nearly falling off the horse, especially since he had never ridden bareback before. The crowds stared at the seemingly bloody apparition that had ridden into town and he straightened himself before addressing them.

"Where is the one called Amon? WHERE IS HE?" he yelled across their heads. They all stood in silence, just staring. Bailey let out a guttural noise of irritation and more fell than got off the horse. Alleys seemed like the kind of places Amon would probably hang out in and also because Bailey was feeling particularly stupid in terms of his well-being, he picked one at random and set off down it, revolver in hand.

There was a strange commotion going on outside his tiny sanctuary, but for once Amon's undying curiosity did not lead him to the source to investigate. No, his body was much, much too tired. His mind too far gone into the depths of his thoughts. Oh, those thoughts! Damn those thoughts. Those horrifying ideas…

What a pitiful man he was to think—to _dream_—that someone as breathtaking and as wonderful as Bailey Adams could ever hope to accept him. He had no money, no home, not even a slightly recognizable name. Never once before had he succeeded in attracting the man's attention when he was poor! The first time he ever learned the man's name was at that disgusting party, when he wore that one clean suit.

And yet, Amon was hopeful.

He let out a quiet, shuddering sigh as the sticky, ink splattered hand fell from it's place over his eyes and traveled down to cup his mouth, allowing for his odd eyes to finally reopen and look at the grimy world he lived in. Yes, this was his home. A cramped space between two tall, moss eaten stone walls—and yet even here he could find some sort of beauty. Why, right on the ledge was a tiny song bird, her feathers fluffed up to keep her warm while she rested. Amon stared at the small creature with a child's fascination. Perhaps he should take this as a sign? Were good things to come once the harsh winter has passed? Whether this was a true sign from God or not—and he never recalled God speaking with him before—it brought a sliver of hope into his anguish-stricken heart. Yes, he still had a chance with Bailey. What romantic couple didn't have a burden to overcome?

Amon shut his eyes a moment to draw the realization in. He desperately wanted—_needed_ a second chance with Bailey. Or was it that Bailey needed a second chance with of him? After all, _he_ was the one who cheated. Nevertheless, Amon was willing to do what ever it took to mend this broken relationship. Oliver was a mistake; he'd prove that to him. He'd prove Oliver's love wasn't real. It wasn't! No, only _his_ love for Bailey was true! No body else could love him more than he did!

He had to show that!

He must _prove_ that!

He--

A reoccurring echo bounced its way into the brunette's ears, giving his heart a start as Amon finally recognized another being invading his personal space. Now, this wasn't something new to him. Many other peasants found a home within these alleys. It wasn't that. But upon Amon's travel back, and upon entering the alley, in his depression, Amon had stripped of his costume and had thrown them aside in sloppy heaps in the muddy ice. The ugly dress, blood smeared apron and shawl were now buried in the slush revealing to the open now a man in dark pants and buttoned shirt.

He hadn't much cared any longer who happened to discover the 'awful murderer' from the posters. However, his feelings regarding his safety very much changed now that he had spawned new faith in him and Bailey! He couldn't afford to get caught, but what was he to do?! Dive for his clothes?!

His eyes narrowed and his gaze rested on the emerging figure, one hand still on his mouth while another snaked casually around his waist, finger tips dusting the hilt of his knife on the other side. Amon didn't make a move until the stranger finally emerged from the alley shadows and revealed himself to be exactly who Amon wanted to see.

His hands fell to the side without question while his eyes lit up, smile blooming. "Bailey," He greeted sweetly. Pushing himself from off the cold stone wall he had been leaning against, Amon self-consciously began to dust himself off and fix his hair, chuckling gently and muttering stupid things like, "Had I have known you were coming to visit I would have prepared!" Done with that, the peasant began to step forward but stopped a good couple of feet away as a glittering something in Bailey's hand drew his attention and made his brows rise in surprise.

Stumbling and sloshing through the alley's filth and mud, Bailey stormed through the dark recesses of the town, furious thoughts flashing through his mind as he went.

_That bastard! How dare he! And he dared to show up like some gentleman to that ball! Fool! I should've seen right through that suit! I bet he stole it from somewhere, that filth! No person that criminally insane could possibly be a part of high society! Bastard! How dare he kill Oliver! What right does he have to take away what I want?_

Bailey rounded the corner and his eyes immediately locked onto a man who was standing a ways down the alley. Friend? Foe? Well, anyone smart enough to notice that a blood covered young man was waving a revolver around was already locked inside their homes or as far away as possible. Striding forward, nearly slipping in the mud, Bailey had every intention of interrogating whoever this stranger was. Unfortunately, Bailey had never actually held anyone at gunpoint before, nor had he ever been menacing enough to do so and be taken seriously by the receiving end. But there was murder in his sharp, cold blue eyes and not even his obvious lack of muscles could stop him from trying to avenge the one person he actually had any feelings for. However, before he had reached the stranger, the figure detached itself from the wall and called his name. Bailey stopped in surprise. He stared intensely at the stranger and the image of a young man in a fresh, clean suit somehow fell into place alongside this scraggily street rat. Bailey bared his teeth and growled like an angry wolf, his chest heaving from the combined efforts of trying to stay on the horse on his way over and from running through a maze of side streets and alleys, all which were trying to drag him down through means of sticky substances.

"You!" he snarled, raising the gun up to point, hopefully, at Amon's chest. Though, having never used a gun before, he hadn't actually checked to make sure that, one, there were any bullets in it and two, if the gun's hammer was even cocked. "You! You dare to even call me by my name, you wretched scum! You're disgusting! You think you can send me honey-coated love letters along with hearts you just happened to rip out of other people? And to another man, no less! I don't think I've ever _seen_ anyone lower than you, you horrible, insignificant bastard! I really hope that Oliver put up a damn good fight before you brutally cut out his heart that's far too beautiful for your filthy hands to touch because you really deserve to be beaten to the ground! And I'm sure that when I put this bloody bullet in your own sick, black, twisted heart that Hell would reject you for being far too much of an evil, insufferable maggot to even be torn to pieces by Satan himself!"

Bailey stopped to catch his breath. His own heart was pounding furiously and he could feel it in his skull and hear it ringing in his ears, making him about ready to burst. It was still winter, but Bailey had left the manor without his coat, so that the only things that were left to keep him warm were his white shirt, now incredibly soiled, his silk maroon waistcoat, black trousers, and cravat which was already half undone. He was shivering slightly, but more out of sheer rage than actual cold. Bailey's delicate fingers, wrapped around the revolver, felt like ice but the heat in his face and neck was burning him up, fueling his hatred.

"So, you rat," Bailey said, spitting on the ground before the other. "Can you possibly have anything to say to me after what you've done to me, after what you did to Oliver, and before I silence your poisonous tongue forever?"

Needless to say, Amon was quite taken back by this fresh show of aggression. Never had he seen Bailey this way! Why, the man always seemed so proper and delicate. Had Oliver truly changed him so much in what felt like mere days together? How could that be, he wondered, how could he have changed so much!

A spark of hatred was burning in his chest. He could feel the angry fire scorch his flesh, sizzle his skin and boil his bones. It was a hate that could just barely meet the other man's, but it was still there and it fueled him. But this hate had nothing to do with Bailey—oh, God no, nor the spiteful words he spat, for Amon had heard these titles so many times before. No, what pained and angered him so was the mere _passion_. The frank and terrible passion Bailey had for Oliver. A kind of power that, that blasted man did not deserve from his beloved. It was a misguided feeling Bailey held for the other, and it made the street rat's stomach positively sour to know that Oliver had tricked him so wrongly.

A few seconds before Bailey finished his rant, Amon had already begun trudging forward toward him despite the gun's barrel pointed at his chest. Whether Bailey's aim was dead-on or not, it wouldn't matter with the target now moving so much closer to him. Still, Amon did not care for that because Amon was not afraid to die. If Bailey honestly had wished to shoot him, he would have done it.

If Bailey truly loved Oliver, he would have done it…

Brave or foolish, the brunette dared to grab the man by the wrist and force the aristocrat's body up against the near by wall, wrists pinned to the stone and the street rat's body against his. "I love you." He told him. His voice was warm and tender despite the budding hate inside them both and of course the struggle of keeping the crazed aristocrat down. "I love you so much and I'd never hurt you. Never, ever hurt you. I loved you before you even knew I existed." The heels of his hands pressed down against the slender bone of Bailey's wrists, hoping to cut off the blood supply and perhaps numb the man's hands so that he might drop the gun before he set it off.

"But Darling, _he_ never did. He never loved you not even a moment. Please, please listen Love, he's not worth fighting for. He didn't even put up a fight…"

In all of his fury and absolute loathing of the man that stood on the other end of the gun's barrel, Bailey had hardly noticed that Amon had come toward him until the man's rough hands grabbed his wrists, forcing him suddenly against the wall. He gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs from the impact with the cold, hard surface that contrasted with the warmth of the slightly taller man's body. And then he heard those words. The ones that had been repeated time and time again right before the inevitable discovery of a fleshy, bloody lump of rotting tissue. It made Bailey shudder with disgust. He would've given anything to have had those words whispered in his ear so tenderly by any other man than the one pressed against him. Why had he even dared to dream something as impossible as having another man love him? Why hadn't he just stuck to women? His father had always told him to be careful what he wished for. Now it was far too late for that. Maybe this wouldn't have happened if he hadn't chased after Oliver like the lovesick puppy he was. Maybe this was punishment for defying the rules. Maybe this was punishment for being himself.

He attempted to free himself from the human cage, but failed miserably as his body was already worn out from exerting more energy than he ever had in his entire life. In addition, he had never felt dirtier in his entire life. His clothing was irrevocably ruined, his face was muddy now in addition to being bloody, his thick hair was wet and muddy and fell across his eyes, which he hated, and he most definitely was starting to stink of garbage and piss. But despite all this, the brunette before him had still called him "Darling" and "Love" and spoke to him like Bailey was his woman. It made Bailey blush despite everything and he lashed out with his feet in shame, but nothing connected enough to do serious damage. As Amon continued his assault of unbearably sweet nothings, Bailey suddenly felt a sharp pain in his wrists and he couldn't help but cry out. Instinctively, he dropped the revolver. _Damn_.

"Don't touch me, you sick, disgusting miscreant!" Bailey spat. The pain was pushing him to borderline hysteria and panic as his only weapon was now sinking into the mud beside them, but it only added fire to his purpose. "How dare you speak such nauseating lies! Oliver was one hundred times the man you will ever be! I'm sure you deceived him somehow with that same trickery you used on me the first time I had the misfortune of laying eyes on you! Oh, I would kill you again and again if I could for everything you've done to me!"

Although he threatened and yapped like a little dog around Amon's heels, it was slowly dawning on him that he was in a very, very undesirable position. What little energy he had was waning and he knew that if he didn't act soon, he'd be at the mercy of the other. He didn't want to, but he'd give up his pride as a gentleman and shout for help if it meant seeing this perverted murderer on the other end of a rope.

"Bailey…"

The pistol no longer in the other's grip, Amon slowly released the pressure he had been applying to the aristocrat's wrists, sympathetic eyes watching him as Bailey continued to struggle and rave in panic. A pang of guilt and concern pounded at his heart amidst all the anger burning inside his shell. He hadn't meant to make Bailey cry out and, as though to comfort him, Amon trailed his hands upwards carefully until their hands were joined palm-to-palm and from there he forced his fingers between Bailey's, continuing to pin him down.

Amon waited patiently for the body in front of him to cease its movements, for the words to lose their fire, all the while holding an unreadable expression until an awkward silence finally settled between them. As moments ticked away, Amon could see a hint of wariness on Bailey. His body, he noted, was shivering and seemed to be lacking the energy to attack him any longer and immediately a sense of worry corrupted his once hard gaze.

"Are you cold?" He asked softly. Throughout all the venomous insults and accusations that spewed from Bailey's lips, none of it seemed to linger in the peasant's mind as he leaned his face closer to the other man's. As if he hadn't heard any of it. Or rather, took none of them to heart.

A gentle kiss found its way unwelcomingly on Bailey's cheek first, and then on his other cheek and finally stopped against his forehead where Amon seemed to rest a moment, his face hovering just inches away. From the corner of his eyes he stared at the gun in the mud.

"If you kill me… will you be happy?" He asked suddenly, warm breath ghosting against Bailey's cool skin. Smiling slightly, the man pulled himself away a little in order to watch Bailey's expression. Search for some kind of sign that this was what he would honestly like. "If I die…"

Amon left his thought unfinished and let Bailey go, quickly crouching into the slush and retrieving the filthy pistol. Once he had rescued it and brought it up with him, the man began to make quick work cleaning out the barrel and handle with the end of his shirt, examining it for a split second and then offering the weapon to Bailey with a polite smile. "Here you go, Love."

Once Bailey had taken back the gun, Amon stepped a little back and spread his arms wide, trying his best to expand his chest so Bailey could hit it. Or where ever else he might want to hit!

"I'll do anything for you. I want to prove that to you."


	6. Unwanted

By now, Bailey was exhausted, numb with cold, and still angry enough to make him feel extremely uncomfortable. He was naturally furious when he felt Amon's hands slide into his, but his body only had enough energy left for a grimace. Bailey breathed out a soft curse as Amon went from "incredibly and indecently" close to "now, this is just not right at all!" close. Lips grazed his cheek and a guttural sound issued from his throat that was a combination of a groan and growl. He could smell the musky scent of the other and the horrid, public display of intimacy made him want to vomit. The only thing keeping him from doing so was that he was nearly sure his insides had turned to ice except for his heart which was beating painfully against his rib cage. They might as well have been having sex out in the middle of the alleyway, however two men went about doing it, with all of the social lines that had been crossed, spit on, and broken by Amon in the span of the last fifteen minutes.

Amon turned his attention to Bailey's other cheek and the redhead turned his face away, but the kiss found its way all the same, causing him to flush. He winced, bracing himself for Amon's lips to sear his brow, but it did not come. A question came instead. Before Bailey had time to react, the street rat had let go of him. Now, without the stronger man to support him, Bailey nearly collapsed into the mud, clinging to the rough wall behind him for balance. His knees shook slightly as he gasped for air, not realizing he had practically been holding it while Amon was pressed against him. Bailey watched the puffs of his own breath snake and writhe in the air in front of him, dazed from this sudden, unexpected freedom. However, before he could get his scattered thoughts together, the handle of his revolver was in front of him. Bewildered, he absentmindedly took it in his stiff hands before Amon offered him his life. Thoughts snapped back into place and Bailey bared his teeth.

"Happy? Oh, trust me, there's no way you can _ever_ make me happy," he croaked. Bailey cocked the hammer of the gun and held it up with both hands. "But this will be as damn close as you're going to get."

Despite the fact he had lovingly envisioned multiple ways with which he could kill this man, even when he was presented with the perfect opportunity to do it, he found himself holding back. Bailey didn't _kill_ people. He didn't even fight people or exchange harsh words with others, much less _kill_ someone. The angry part of him kept screaming at him, reminding him that this demon had killed Oliver and tore out his heart. He deserved to die. But the other part of him told him that he had no right to take anyone's life and that his family would be so disappointed in him if he did. Bailey shut his eyes tight, willing everything that had happened to have been part of some very terrible dream. But the cold still bit at his exposed skin and Amon still stood there, arms open.

_Just do it! There are enough street rats in the world. And this one happened to kill someone you liked! Someone you might have even loved! Get rid of him! No one will miss him anyway_, hissed the dark creature lurking at the back of his mind. It hurt Bailey to think such wicked thoughts, but they strengthened his resolve nonetheless. He knew he was already going to Hell for his attraction to men. He might as well go all the way.

Bailey pulled the trigger.

Killing Amon might have made up for the severe lack of manliness plaguing Bailey at this point, what with his clothes all filthy and his extremities shaking and the fact that he looked like he was going to pass out at any minute. However, this did not happen and just made Bailey look even more pathetic than he already was feeling.

The revolver was empty.

Thanks to the side of Bailey that didn't think he'd ever, ever hurt another human being in his entire life, the young man had decided to keep his revolver empty, and if he ever did run into trouble, he figured he would just bluff his way out of it. Bailey swore again. He could always, he supposed, throw the thing at Amon as hard as he could, but something told him that "as hard as he could" meant that it would probably end up landing behind him, if not on his own head.

Bailey could feel his vision getting blurry. His bourgeoisie lifestyle had not fashioned him into one who could stand being out in the cold London air for long periods of time, especially without any warm clothing. His whole body seemed to be shutting down on its own. He wondered if this is what it felt like to die.

"Bang. You're dead," he mumbled before dropping the gun into the mud for the second time and then completely passed out.

Amon had remained eyes-closed during most of this indecision, totally unaware of the slight turmoil running loose in his beloved's head. After all, wasn't this what Bailey had wanted?

But as prepared as the street rat tried to make himself, there was no helping the gentle shock that washed over him, the subtle cringe, as the click of the trigger appeared to echo all around him. However, something appeared… wrong. Amon had never had the _privilege _of standing in front of a revolver before, but he was certain when one pulled the little metal piece—the trigger—that a loud sound was supposed to come out of it, somewhere. Something like a bolt of thunder that spewed smoke and caused a great deal of bloodshed. This one didn't seem to _make_ that loud noise, and as the man began to slowly reopen his eyes and look down at himself, he saw that the revolver had failed to make him bleed as well.

The thing was broken!

Surprised, Amon brought his eyes back onto the other, bewildered by the words that tumbled out of the man's pale lips, and then horrified by the sight of him falling so suddenly. Crying out to him, Amon wasted no time running towards him, knees sinking into the slush as he scrambled to roll the aristocrat's body onto his back. "Bailey?!" He tried again to no avail. "Bailey!"

Panic held him in a death grip. This was all too common place in the London streets, finding men, women, children—all frozen stiff in the snow. Their bodies hard as rock…

He scooped up the strawberry-blonde into his lap and wrapped his arms protectively around him. Bailey's body was still soft, but he was very, very cold and Amon hastily scanned the area around them for something warm he could wrap him in. There was nothing warm here. Just a soiled dress and apron… would the shawl help?

Adjusting his arms, Amon rose to his feet again with Bailey secure in his arms, held like a bride, as he hurried to retrieve the shawl. It was an itchy, uncomfortable thing but Amon hoped it would help keep his love warm. "Please don't leave me." He begged, images flooding his mind as he finished draping the shawl around the redhead's shoulders and chest. "I won't let you."

Amon made sure the shawl was wrapped up tight before he attempted to carry Bailey with him again. His mind was racing for somewhere to take him. Amon had always wanted Bailey to come live with him. He dreamed of having a home where they could live and be happy together, someplace warm and cozy. A home with a fireplace, hot food and comfortable chairs…

Someplace where he could never leave…

He was never going to let him leave…

A home, a home was what he needed, and Amon knew of just one place.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" He had to lick his lips to keep them from splitting when he smiled. Not that it helped much, he realized. He could still taste the rust on his bottom lip. "They look like stars. Orange ones! Oh, but I think I like spring the best. Don't you like spring? And summer, of course. Everyone loves summer."

It hurt to walk, and even more to breathe. Amon imagined that the inside of his throat must have been raw by now. Raw and lined with frost that thawed whenever he paused to swallow the nonexistent moisture in his cold mouth. It hurt to breathe, but Amon couldn't help but keep talking. He had been talking for the entire trip, pretending as if Bailey was listening and conversing along with him. Talking helped, he liked to believe. It helped Bailey to know he wasn't alone, and it helped Amon for the same exact reason. "What's your favorite color?"

A horrible pain pulsed with every step he took, jetting right up his legs—which he wasn't sure he even had anymore. They felt like blocks of wood connected to slabs of stone. It hurt, but Amon continued trudging through the shallow ice, concentrating all his warmth into Bailey as he did so and finding relief in knowing that they were almost there. Just in front of him the tall building stood, its structure ruining the gorgeous twilight sky, but remaining as beckoning as ever. "We're almost there."

Amon could hardly wrap his fingers around the brass knocker on the door. They just wouldn't coil properly, and soon the peasant lost patience and just proceeded to slam the side of his hand into the wood, ignoring the agony it caused him with a feverish flare. "Excuse me!" He shouted, gave the door one more heavy slam, then finally joined it with the other to help him keep Bailey up.

Old William was pacing back and forth in the main hallway, the varnished floor getting more scuffed up than it had ever been in its entire life. Some of the maids were crying in rooms far away from the one where the heart lay. A servant had ridden out to fetch the law enforcement and another had dashed off to town to search for their clearly traumatized master. When the violent pounding on the door started, William nearly had a heart attack. He rallied his composure and swiftly went to the door, hoping it was one of the servants returning with some sort of reassurance. The door was swung open and William had to take a few seconds to register what he was seeing. Master Bailey was lying in the arms of a mystery man and they both looked like they had traveled to hell and back. A very muddy and smelly hell, but hell nonetheless.

If the man currently holding his master had showed up to the front door on his own, he would've made sure that the man was violently ejected from the premises. However, due to the circumstances, this dilapidated young man carrying Bailey was something close to a saint in the old man's eyes.

"Oh, sir, you found him!" William cried, ushering this glorious mystery man into the manor. He called to the servants and the maids. "We cannot thank you enough for the service you have done our young master. Please, let the servants take Master Bailey out of your hands. You may go with these servants to wash up and I'm sure the master won't mind if you borrow some of his clothes. And you may stay in the manor as long as you like, sir! I think I can say this safely as you brought our beloved master back to us. No doubt you saved his life and when the master awakes, he will surely want to thank you himself. The servants will show you to the guest room when you have freshened up, sir."

Without giving the young man a chance to say anything, William and the other servants propelled him to a hot, bubbly bath. William was a nice, loyal butler who loved his master dearly, but he was an old man who was too blinded to even be suspicious of the ragged man he had just let into the house. Mind and heart at ease, he followed the servants up to Bailey's quarters.

From the look of things, the worst that had happened to Bailey was being out in the cold too long for his weak constitution. There were a couple scrapes, but nothing that needed medical attention. The worst that could happen was that he'd get a minor cold. William and a few maids put their unconscious master in a lukewarm bath where they attacked every atom of dirt until Bailey's skin was pink from the scrubbing. They then dressed him in a white silk shirt and black trousers before tossing him into a bed stuffed with the remains of a now surely extinct species of bird.

Bailey slept the whole night and for the better part of the next day, but when he awoke, he was warm and comfy in his own bed. It was a wonderful feeling. Everything was okay in the world. Everything that had happened was merely a horrible, horrible nightmare and now he was waking up with his head buried in six fluffy pillows. Afternoon sunlight was streaming in and making his clean hair shine golden.

And then he sat up. A roaring headache hit him right between the eyes and he realized for possibly the first time that his nose could be runny and stuffy at the same time. His eyes watered and his throat hurt when he swallowed. Bailey collapsed back onto his six fluffy pillows that didn't seem so comfortable anymore. After lying there, staring up at the ceiling and pitying himself, thoughts slowly began to flow through his mind like molasses. Bailey groaned and put his hand over his eyes.

_All right_, Bailey thought blearily, _how did I get here? The last thing I did was try to shoot that man. Amon._

Bailey hissed through his teeth as the reminder of Oliver's death hit him harder than the headache did. But that still didn't answer the question as to how he managed to end up back in his bed from a filthy back alley. Bailey tried to call out to William, but his throat burned and killed the words before they could make their way out.

The warm welcoming was far from anything Amon had expected to receive. Granted, he _was_ hoping for something like this to happen. Although he was lower than dirt in the eyes of the aristocracy and even to the working class, it was simply unheard of for anyone of any social class not to be given _some_ sort of reward for doing a good deed. Especially for the aristocrats! And rescuing one of their own from the deprived streets of London was quite possibly the highest achievement one could ever hope for. There was without a doubt some sort of reward to gain from this, Amon simply didn't think it would be given so openly and with so much trust.

Even so, Amon could feel the return of a very dark presence. Something evil and heavy that nested in his chest and made every heart beat painful. Something about the butler—the maids, something about them was horribly wrong although he couldn't fathom why he would think so. They were nothing but dutiful, if not kind. Still, something compelled the young beggar to hate them. Not that his humble and courteous smiles would ever let that show.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Bailey began to stir. Amon didn't mind, of course. In fact, he had kept himself busy for much of the day. Not in his own room, of course. Much like a mischievous child, Amon had been sneaking in and out of Bailey's room all throughout the evening until he was caught by a maid who found him wandering the halls and forced him to sleep in his room with a cup of warm tea. However, that hardly stopped him and a few hours later, Amon was back in Bailey's room again to watch over him. Only this time whenever Amon suspected somebody was coming in he hid in the room.

There were quite a few places to hide, he discovered. And even more things to explore! Closets, dressers, small boxes, big boxes, and all sorts of things. Every thing and any thing Amon found, he analyzed as though it was something as mysterious as an ancient rune. To be honest, most of them were. Bailey held so many little curiosities that no mere peasant could ever hope to witness. Things like little oriental dishes, mechanical birds, something as simple as a carpet held ever lasting wonder for Amon. And the books! Books filled to the brim with words—many of them he couldn't even begin to decipher and he didn't care! They were mystifying all the same.

But as wild as the things in the room drove his curiosity, Bailey remained his top priority. He never once gave any object more interest or attention than he gave Bailey. Whenever the redhead so much as _breathed_ Amon was right at his side, watching him with alert eyes, waiting for him to awaken. Amon was only too pleased when he finally did.

Watching from against the wall beside his bed, Amon didn't make a sound as Bailey motioned about upon the plush mattress. Instead, he waited for his beloved to settle down again before finally coming over, sitting unwelcomingly close on his bed beside him, all smiles as he cupped the side of his face, the blade of his knife up against the other. "How are you feeling?" He asked kindly. Strands of dark curls fell softly as the man leaned down, covering one of his eyes in a curtain of dark hair. The bath certainly did wonders for him. The slime and grimy dirt appeared to have completely left his skin; showing off its fair complexion in the sun's light while his hair finally began to show its life, no longer weighed down by filth. The borrowed clothes also birthed a new image for the lad. Amon no longer fit the description of a worthless street rat. He still, however, owned up to his title of being 'insane'.

"Oh, you look ill." The brunette muttered softly, holding a serious expression for a moment. Meanwhile his blade continued to tease Bailey, running its tip against his cheek and its body down his neck without ever slicing him. "I'm so sorry, Pet. Could I talk to you? It's important that I do. I think you will find it so."

He paused for a few lingering seconds, surprised by something only to break out into another cheerful grin. "Him? Don't be afraid of him, Love!" He chuckled, eyes fleeting to the dagger pressing harder against the other's cheek. "He wouldn't ever hurt you. He likes you almost as much as I do. He wouldn't hurt you, but he'd hurt everyone _else_…"

Bailey would have jumped from shock to suddenly see the bane of his existence sitting, not the least bit shockingly, too close to him but the dagger pressed to his face kept him from doing so. Granted, it took Bailey a moment to actually register that tall, dark and handsome was in fact tall, dark and terrible but it wasn't overly difficult to put two and two together once a blade was at an inappropriate proximity to his face. Under much different circumstances, Bailey would have loved to awaken to a handsome face leaning over him. Alas, there were many things that would've been pleasant about Amon if the situation were completely different. There were certainly too many aspects of the current predicament to completely register in Bailey's stuffed up head. One: how in the world did Amon end up in his home? Two: why was Amon wearing his clothes? Three: why would Amon actually look clean if he was a street rat? Four: what was he going to do now?

Questions one through three were answered when his bedroom door creaked open and William poked his head through the crack. He greeted Bailey merrily, noticed that his master was no doubt probably thanking his kind savior for saving his life, and excused himself immediately with a cheerful wave. It was rather unfortunate for Bailey that he had so many pillows, and made a mental note to himself to dispose of them, because the knife was obscured by the corner of a feather engorged sack. He tried to convey with his eyes to William that he was not in the company of a nice person, but because William was a little old man with poor eyesight and a conviction that everyone to do with Bailey was agreeable, this did not work at all. The door closed with a horribly ominous click and Bailey was once again left alone with Amon.

Amon's words were ever dripping with endearing names and laced with loving affection that would've made Bailey redden if he wasn't already from his cold. It also would've made him nauseous, but that was already in effect as well. Bailey gasped sharply as the knife's cool surface lay flush against his cheek, the pressure increasing slightly. The reassurance from Amon was anything but and the redhead turned pale. He swallowed hard and then winced as pain shot through the back of his throat.

"I don't know how you got in here or how you deceived my servants, but I want you out this minute. Get out or I'll send for the police. I'll even give you a head start before I put the hounds after you. Don't think I haven't forgotten what I set out to do. I will see you killed for what you did to Oliver, make no mistake about that. Now, get out!"

That's what Bailey wanted to say, but he was in such a state of complete surprise that the only thing he managed to croak out was, "Y…you!"

Bailey was trapped in his own bed and he just had to hope that whatever Amon wanted to talk about didn't involve knives, hearts, or molestation.

Amon had heard William's entrance moments before Bailey could and gracefully repositioned at least one of his arms as to keep a more respective impression before the old man entered. He had picked up on William's poor eyesight last night, however, he hadn't yet learned the exact _limits_. That is to say, he wasn't sure how far the old butler's eye sight could reach. In spite of himself, a sort of nervous tension crept up on him as the old man entered. Something that sat on his shoulders and lingered far after the other man had decided to depart, leaving Amon frozen in time with a sober expression. The only thing left moving was the dagger. Like a third hand, the blade appeared to be caressing Bailey's skin, swift and strangely careful. Then it stopped, retracted, and rested flat over Amon's other hand.

"I still want to make it up to you, you know." He spoke seriously. His voice had become a touch softer, much less excited than it had been before. The cheerful energy at least had vanished from his words. "I want to erase everything Oliver had imprinted on you. I want the chance—don't you agree this is the best chance?" A sweet little smile appeared. "Darling, all I want is you. I just want to show you how much you mean to me. No one can love you as much as I do. Absolutely no one! No one… your servants don't know who I am."

A short pause trailed after his words, and that smile grew darker.

"They don't know my name. You won't tell them, will you?" The brunette leaned closer, so close the ends of his hair might have tickled the tip of Bailey's nose. "I don't like them. I don't like them at all. None of them, and I know they'll take me away from you. They'll take me away and, Love, I don't want that. I don't want that! They'll take me away from you and I'll never see you again… I won't let that happen. Not again. Never again, and that's why you can't tell them. Not a thing. My friend won't hurt you, Bailey, but he'll hurt _everyone else_. I won't let them take you away again!"

Bailey felt the familiar wave of anger for Amon when Oliver's name was mentioned, but his anger soon turned to horror as the man began to threaten his servants. Now, Bailey never really considered his servants as anyone important. Most of the time, Bailey hardly noticed they were there. When he did notice them, the maids were bothersome and the butlers were too snooty for Bailey's taste. However, there was only one servant who actually meant anything to Bailey and that was William. The old man was more of a father to him than the one that waxed and curled his mustache for uptight social gatherings full of stiff, chauvinist _gentlemen_.

Bailey, his head still very fuzzy, slowly put his hand on Amon's chest (surprisingly warm) and pushed him up so that they were both sitting upright. Then he carefully slid out of the bed before collapsing into a nearby armchair. Bailey took a moment to put his hand over his eyes and shut out the glaring sunlight. Think, think, think. It was really a very inopportune time to have to think about something that could very well risk the lives of more innocent people as well as risk Bailey's personal space. It seemed that this Amon was at least capable of some sort of coherent discussion, but it was obvious that he was also very capable of ending any sort of verbal communication with his "friend". Like walking on egg shells, he thought. Not that Bailey had ever even seen an egg shell before.

"Look," said Bailey, shakily, finally looking up but not at Amon, "Amon, isn't it? There's really no need to be unreasonable in this matter. I'll give you your chance as long as you behave civilly and behaving civilly does not include sharp, pointed objects."

_All right, Bailey Adams, _he thought to himself, _channel Elizabeth. You're a bloody grown man! Act like one! This person is no princess_.

"But really, it would take no time at all for the servants and everyone else in society to find out for themselves that you're not a gentleman at all. What with your behavior. I suppose there are some gentlemen that behave so oddly, but they're usually very wealthy and I would hazard that you are not very wealthy. Besides, I don't like to be seen in the company of someone who is disagreeable. I hold parties here, you know, and if you want to make anything up to me, you can start by learning how to be presentable and socially adept. I'll even give you your first lesson today: don't call me 'darling' or 'love' or touch me in any sort of suggestive manner in public. For God's sake, man, you wouldn't even do that with a woman! And don't you know that having romantic notions about another man is punishable by law? It's 'Mr. Adams'. And perhaps 'Bailey', but I haven't decided who I want you to be yet. You clearly know how to read and write." Bailey scowled. "Put that poetry to good use and impress a few ladies of society if you have nothing else. Speaking of which, your homework is to come up with a proper last name for yourself. So now that I have agreed to let you stay in my home in exchange for my servants' safety, I believe it's quite up to you as to whether you _can_ stay or not. Because if you do anything that would damage my reputation, the both of us will be out on the streets and I can assure you that you won't ever see me again seeing as I would rather _die_ than have that happen, do you understand?"

Bailey nearly collapsed with the effort of the speech, but he tried to keep his posture all the same. The tone of voice was not his own; it was Elizabeth's. She had taught him more than any of their governesses had and that crisp manner of speaking had managed to drive itself into Bailey's head even after he was finished with schooling. Bailey was nearly trembling with the unusual burst of self confidence. To tell the truth, Bailey didn't like it. But it was a front he'd have to put on if he wanted any say in the matter. And something had snapped inside of him too. Perhaps he was tired of being so afraid of an unknown killer. Perhaps it was because the unknown killer had suddenly become a real person rather than a faceless phantom. In any case, at this point Bailey was too tired to wonder about it.

"I need some tea," Bailey groaned to himself. "Mister Amon, please tell William (the elderly chap) to take you to town and shop for some decent suits and shoes and whatnot. I _don't_ want you wearing mine. In the mean time, I'm going to sit here and die of a cold in peace, thank you."

He finally spared Amon a glance and was still rather taken aback by the change in appearance. Then he had to remind himself that this man killed Oliver. He had to remember that. He had to remember that this was a person to be hated and loathed and at handed over to the law as soon as an opportunity presented itself. _I have to remember the hate_.


	7. Words

Sometimes, if he stayed real quiet, the room would talk to him. Most of the time walls only listened, but that didn't seem to be the case with him. He could always hear them whisper. Trouble was walls don't speak in words and although their message was desperate, Amon couldn't understand what it was they were trying to say. Sometimes, in certain rooms, he would hear them speak in the form of feeling. Some strange emotion would wash over him and the street rat would catch himself freezing in time, mind completely blank. It appeared to worry the maids and they would always offer to sit him down, but once out of his spell, Amon would merely smile at their sympathetic faces and tell them he was feeling fine, not to worry.

But they did. He saw it on their faces and in their voice, this thin film of panic and concern and _fear_. He was familiar with it. Dammit, he saw it every day on the street! Used to. Used to…

If they took him away from Bailey he would--

But they didn't. None of them did.

Days went by painfully slow while Bailey recuperated from his cold. Amon could barely stand it. They were in the same house now and still he didn't get much chance to be with Bailey. Even at night when all others were asleep, Amon wasn't able to meet with the other. The bedroom door was locked and although he could have easily broken in, he suspected that would cause more harm than good. Anything that could possibly upset the strawberry-blonde was to be avoided at all costs. He didn't want to give anyone any reason what so ever to get him to leave. Never mind arrested, for that thought was the farthest in his mind. Besides, he made a deal with him.

As severely reluctant as he had been before, Amon did take Bailey's suggestion—or demand, depending on who you asked—of taking William out into town to shop. Thanks to his simple disguise, no body questioned this new friend of the family and Amon saw first hand how kind and humble these shop keepers could be to a man who appeared to have some pounds on him. It was almost shocking to be treated so well by these people. The very men and women who would chase him away from their stores with brooms and buckets of dirty water were now offering up their finest clothes and treating him as someone important as opposed to a mangy dog. Amon had never been anything of importance to anyone and the abrupt transition was awe-inspiring, but at the same time nauseating. No matter, the trip home was quick and the man spent the rest of his time eagerly awaiting Bailey's illness to lift.

However, he wasn't the only one anxious for Bailey's health to renew. Floods of invitations to aristocratic parties were delivered almost daily to the house. Birthdays and other such things that Amon couldn't truly comprehend the importance of. Who cared if Susan Walsh was turning twenty-two? Did Bailey care? It puzzled him how many parties a rich person was coaxed into going. So many events! When he questioned one of the maids about it, she nearly laughed at him. "The rich always need something to entertain themselves with!" She exclaimed, good naturedly. Bailey was no different, he supposed. For one reason or another, just when he thought he would finally have some time to spend with the man, Bailey appeared to have agreed to some party. His new guest in tow, of course. Much to Amon's dismay.

It wasn't that he wasn't ecstatic to be with Bailey again, but he would much, much rather be alone with his beloved and not in a crowded room filled to the brim with strangers he didn't care meeting. Alas, he wanted to please Bailey. Surely he'll be happy to know he would be joining him.

Now if only he could put this thing on right…

Amon wasn't much of a snappy dresser. He knew what would be warm and comfortable, but he didn't have a blasted idea in terms of color combination or even how to tie a cravat! Fiddling with the silky fabric and frowning down at himself, Amon had proceeded to choke himself twice upon tying it and now turned the thing into one massive knot under his chin. Further more, the cream-colored shirt he was wearing wasn't even buttoned yet, there was no vest to compliment it, his pants were gray and he did not have a bloody idea where his shoes wandered off to. What was even better was that he was sure they were late.

"My hair isn't done, either." He reminded himself. Oh, this was going very, very bad.

Due to Bailey's poor constitution in general, his recovery from the common cold was a prolonged one. Not only was his suffering double the length of any normal human being, but the dread of confronting what lurked outside his bedroom door was quite possibly worse than the sniffles. The only time he unlocked his door was when he was absolutely sure that it was William and that was only for meals or fresh towels. Letters were slipped under the door and messages relayed through the thick lacquered wood by the servants. Unfortunately, the letters didn't keep Bailey entertained for long. He read them repeatedly until he became absolutely disgusted with the pretentiousness oozing from the party invitations or the completely shameless insistence on marriage from his mother. He did get one letter from his sister, but it screamed of all the wonderful things she was enjoying in Paris while Bailey was trapped in his bedroom. She had been to a number of dance parties and certainly had acquired an equal amount of suitors. After his letters had been read, recycled, and eventually cast aside, all Bailey had to think about was Amon. What was he going to do with him? How was he going to keep him from doing something violent or promiscuous? How was he going to keep his own reputation in tact while trying not to have another emotional breakdown around Amon?

One day he managed to gather up enough of his wits to pick through the ball invitations and sort out the ones that might ease Amon into society a little bit better than the rest. By this time, the aristocrats of Bailey's social circle had found out he was housing a guest and they absolutely insisted that he introduce this new young (perhaps he's rich!) man to them. This took several days of contemplation, but he eventually found a decent starter for the former outcast. Bailey gave some instructions to William on preparing Amon for the dance, but William only did about half of them. They had had an argument through the door about teaching Amon the popular dances of the day as well as teaching him the proper etiquette for social events. Bailey had previously told William that Amon was from France had no idea what English culture entailed. William believed that Bailey owed Amon enough to spend more time in his company and so should instruct the young man himself. In the end, William won out. However, by the time they settled the argument, there was no time to do such things and Bailey was forced to take the risk. There weren't a terrible number of highly influential men and women at this event, so if something terrible happened, it could possibly be fixed through interception of gossip.

The night of the ball, Bailey was just finishing buttoning his dark, cool gray jacket of his suit in his room. His fingers shook a little bit. He would have to see Amon eventually to make sure he wasn't bringing his own sweetbreads to the party. However, it was getting late and Bailey couldn't delay any longer. He took a deep breath and left his room for the first time in days.

When he slowly pushed open the door, the image presented to him did not please him at all. Of course, it could have been worse. Amon could've been standing there with someone else's blood all over the new clothes William had acquired for him. But the man's hair was a mess and it looked like he had slept in his clothes after a long, hard battle with a silk python. Bailey was torn between rushing to the man's side and make things right with this apocalyptic crisis, and running away. Knowing that the only direction he could move was forward, he plowed right through. He gave a light cough and a small knock before inching into the room.

"I'm afraid those pants won't do. Dark brown is more your color," he said, coldly, summoning up some sister-Elizabethan authority. He strode over to the wardrobe with as much confidence as he could muster and took out the aforementioned suit. "Put this on and I'll redo your cravat. I'll teach you how to do it yourself later, but we're late enough tonight as it is."

Bailey briefly hesitated, but steeled himself and reached out to undo the knot that had manifested itself on Amon's throat. His cheeks flushed a bit as he made a considerable effort not to make eye contact with the man who had previously made it clear that he was ready and willing to get intimate at a moment's notice.

"Just stay close to me tonight and follow my lead." Bailey cursed himself as the words tumbled from his mouth, but he tried his best not to physically acknowledge the accidental double entendre. "Watch what I do. Watch what other people do. Let me do most of the talking. Do you understand?"

Amon was half expecting to spy a maid or perhaps William at the door the moment he had heard the knock. A suspicion that was in no way pleasant for the man, made evident by the look of impatience as he whipped his body around in order to face the source of the sound, his fingers still rubbing and clawing at the material at his neck. The expression changed instantly the moment his stony eyes caught sight of Bailey and immediately there was a brightness to him that mimicked a child's joy upon receiving a desperately wanted gift. He was so happy that, for a moment, the only word the brunette could utter in response to Bailey's manifestation was an excited, "oh!"

His lack of an appropriate greeting didn't appear to faze Bailey one way or another. The young aristocrat didn't seem to waste any time at all taking charge of the whole situation Amon had made for himself, and that left for a very grateful street urchin whom, clever as he was, couldn't come up with any valid excuses as to why he wasn't dressed for the occasion they were about to have tonight. Then again, he had only been half-prepared for excuses. Every other thought was orbited around Bailey. He was just so happy to see him again! And in proper health!

Grinning like a fool, Amon watched with fixed eyes as Bailey proceeded to dig out a dark brown suit and offer it to him. It took a few seconds, but eventually Amon took the outfit and, hardly even glancing at them, laid them still folded on the back of a chair that sat right beside him. Not only were his clothes in disorder, but the once perfectly respectable room had suffered quite a bit in Amon's hands. Though, thankfully, there were no holes in the walls nor torn curtains and things of that nature, the furniture was completely disorganized as if the man had never once been blessed with their presence before. Chairs were against walls, the tables over turned, and the only thing left where it was, was the wardrobe and bed which were the only two objects Amon decided he didn't need to move… for the time being.

"You like me in dark brown?" With his eyes still locked on the other, Amon finally found his voice and smiled as the man came over to him to fix the cravat-knot. It pleased him to hear such a thing from Bailey. Surely this was a sign the other had been thinking of him. How else would he know what color suited him best unless he had spent at least some amount of time identifying his looks? Did this mean he was attractive in his eyes and, even more importantly, was the reminder of Oliver slowly being forgotten?

So entranced by his thoughts and worries, Amon had failed to listen to most of Bailey's words and thus did not answer the initial question by the end of it. Instead, the street rat began to hum a sort of soft, but pleasant tune that purred deep in his throat as he watched Bailey work with a loving gaze. Accompanied with the absent humming, Amon raised a hand and brushed the back of his fingers gingerly against the side of the redhead's face, entangling them in locks of hair which appeared to melt right off his digits whenever he moved his hand away from Bailey again, the hair bouncing back more or less the way it had been before, prepared for another assault which Amon was all too happy to do.

If Bailey were as manly as he liked to pretend to be, he would have taken Amon's surprisingly handsome face and introduced it to his fist. However, common sense told him that he would probably hurt his shoulder trying to throw the punch more than he would hurt Amon. Instead, Bailey suppressed the chill that threatened to run up his spine and grabbed Amon's wrist, forcing his arm down.

"Stop that," he snapped, finishing tying the cravat. The redhead thrust the dark brown jacket into Amon's arms. "That's exactly the kind of thing I told you _not_ to do. If you do that while we're at the ball, you are going to create a terrible amount of trouble for me. And once that happens, you won't be able to stay here any longer, regardless of what I do. We're taking separate carriages. Albert will be driving you. Come downstairs when you're properly dressed."

Before Amon could touch his face again for the thousandth time, Bailey beat a hasty retreat out of the room, met William at the bottom of the stairs with his overcoat and hat, and went outside to wait in the chilly carriage despite William's protests. Bailey watched his breath curl up and fill the air in front of him with a white cloud. He glared at the cloud and held his breath until he couldn't anymore and icy mist returned. Bailey took a few deep breaths to slow his breathing down and then pressed his warm cheek to the window glass.

The problem wasn't that he liked Amon in any way, shape, or form. Of that he was sure. Every night he imagined ripping out Amon's own heart and holding it in front of his dying face like the man surely did to Oliver. Bailey knew he was just desperate, just curious. Everything he secretly dreamed about was suddenly being thrust in his face and the only way he knew how to react to it was positively. A lock of wavy hair fell into his eyes and he snarled, gripping the strands that had slid through Amon's fingers in clenched fists, knuckles turning white as he put his face to his knees. The sound of the front door slamming shut signaled that they would be departing as soon as Amon got into his carriage. Bailey raised his head, smoothed back his hair, and straightened his coat. If there was anything he was good at, it was putting on a farce for the ladies and gentlemen of society. After all, he'd been doing it for seven years.

Nothing but the sound of horse hooves and the jerking of the carriage registered in Bailey's mind. By the time they had arrived at the gleaming, white manor, Bailey was stepping out of the carriage with his chin held high and a slight smile on his face. He stepped lightly over to the carriage behind his, Albert holding the door open, and peered in nonchalantly.

"Did you do your homework and come up with a last name? I'll have to introduce you, you know," he said quietly. Even his eyes smiled.

The jacket was retrieved with some alarm. Bailey's scolding certainly snapped him out of his content reverie and when the man came to he couldn't for the life of him understand what he had done to earn such a show of disdain. What exactly did he do that he was not supposed to do? But the question fell dead before he could rake his brain for an answer.

Longing eyes stalked Bailey out of the room until they could not follow him any farther, the door closing shut. The subtle hint of surprise was gone now, replaced by an eerie calm that corrupted his features. It left a dreamy glaze in the street rat's eyes and a soft smile soon began to tug at his lips as he looked back down at the outfit still awaiting his attention. And as he stripped to put them on, he hummed.

If only Bailey knew how much he loved him. He would make everything right. He would be good, he knew he could, he knew he could be everything he'd ever wanted! He didn't need another man—certainly not an Oliver—all he needed and would ever need was him. As much as he detested this party he was to be attending, Amon saw it as an opportunity. He'll prove his worth to him this way. He'll find a way to make him happy.

Even if it meant dressing up in uncomfortable clothing.

Despite the privilege of riding in a carriage for the first time in his life, Amon had little appreciation for it after a few minutes of watching thin, naked trees and frost bitten roads rush by his window. But he supposed it was much better than walking anywhere in this chill, and it did leave him free to finally groom himself. Granted he didn't have a mirror in the carriage to aid him, but Amon felt confident in his abilities to brush back his hair into a pony tail. It wasn't that hard, he had certainly done it before.

Riding in the carriage also gave Amon plenty of time to think. He would need a name for himself. A French name, but which one? It wasn't as though he managed to find many French novels in the Adams estate and certainly none he could pronounce well. There was one he had seen earlier. It began with an M, he knew that much. How did it sound? Mo… Moly…

His body jerked slightly as the carriage came to a stop and Amon silently cursed to himself for having forgotten the name he had chosen. He slammed the silver brush down onto the bench beside him with a fury, not even watching as the innocent object projected itself into the ceiling only to collapse onto the floor. What was the name?! Moly! Moly-something!

But Bailey's sudden intrusion robbed Amon of his anger and the street rat glanced over at his sweet love, finding so much… light in him. It was incredible. Something of a miracle to Amon, who had only seen Bailey with misery in his eyes as of late. But now! Something in the other man glowed and the brunette couldn't comprehend why. Nevertheless, he smiled back. "Molyneux." He replied, a sense of pride washing over him when he finally recalled the name for Bailey. Unfortunately he pronounced it entirely wrong.

A disgruntled expression appeared briefly before being swept off and replaced once again with an affectionate smile. Bailey coughed lightly to try and dislodge the growing lump in his throat.

"Remember," he said, softly, as the footman helped Amon out of the coach, "just stay with me. If you go wandering off, I might not be able to find you later."

As if he could lose him so easily anyway, Bailey thought to himself. They entered through the grand mahogany doors into the well-lit, chandeliered manor; Bailey about a half step in front of Amon as they checked in with the servant at the door. Bailey saw quite a few familiar faces that, although politely inquired as to his health, were clearly begging to know more about his mysterious, and probably very wealthy, French guest. He managed to make what Amon called a French last name into sounding something resembling authentic by putting a French accent on it, though it probably wouldn't have mattered considering these people seemed to feel that the more exotic, the better (or, as exotic French people could possibly be). Women cooed over Amon's long, dark locks, wondering if it was fashionable for men in France to wear their hair so long. Of course, never stopping to see if Amon was even capable of responding, Bailey always answered their questions with, "Yes, well, that's how they do it in France." It was lucky that his sister Elizabeth was still in said country otherwise she would've probably said something along the lines of, "Oh, is that so? Well, I'm sure you know better than me, brother dearest, since you frequent Paris so often. The city of romance is practically your second home, isn't it?" After which, the ladies also engaged in their conversation would shoot questions at him like flaming arrows about what it was like in Paris while Elizabeth would watch him with her usual air of smugness as he smoldered and burned in the fires of embarrassment.

However, he may have preferred that over his mother, who happened to be there as well. It shouldn't have surprised him. After all, she was still scouring the fields of high society for a respectable little morsel of a girl to whom she could marry her only son.

"Bailey! Bailey!" she squawked upon seeing his bright strawberry-blonde hair bobbing in the seas of brunette and gold. She took his arm in a powerful, pincer-like hold with her plump fingers and hissed into his ear. "What's this? How can you let your own mother be the last person in the whole world to know about your guest?"

Bailey highly doubted she had been the last person in town, even more so the whole world, to find out about Amon, but juicy gossip was more delicious than the best full course meal. Not to mention that it seemed to her that Bailey was finally acquiring more male friends. He had always kept close to his sister and certainly courted many girls in the past (though kept none of them, to Mrs. Adams's severe disappointment), but it was rare for him to go out hunting or have a smoke and a chat with solely testosterone-based company. Bailey had complained that he thought hunting was a stupid sport, the smell of smoke made him sick, and all the men she wanted him to be friends with simply talked about politics, money, and themselves. When Bailey expressed a desire to get to know the artists, writers, and cultured people of society, his mother and father had spluttered a bit before pretending he hadn't said anything at all. Oliver had been a relief for them until his incredibly inconvenient death. After Bailey's parents heard what had happened to him, they quickly denied any suggestion that the Adams family were even remotely acquainted with him. Now, his mother had to make due with a foreigner, but she supposed it was better than nothing.

"Mother, this is Amon Molyneux. He's from Lyon, France. Amon, this is my mother. I apologize for not introducing the two of you sooner. I'm afraid I had quite a lot on my mind these past few days."

"Lyon! That's quite far!" One could almost see her calculating how many francs and subsequent pounds it would have taken to travel the distance. Bailey knew she would not dare try and kick Amon out at this point, even if he was a strange foreigner. It would have been a lie to say Bailey hadn't considered having his mother be the driving force that would have Amon standing at the gallows in a matter of days, but his mother had the disadvantage of being very fat, so it was more likely that Amon would have had a higher probability of sticking her with his beloved knife before she could flatten him.

"Yes, we wouldn't want to introduce him to Elizabeth or we would never see her again," Bailey laughed, giving Amon a friendly nudge with his elbow which he hoped would be interpreted as 'Right, you jolly old chap with whom I share no more than a proper, noble brotherly friendship?' rather than 'Please take me to the nearest dark, abandoned corner and start touching me in all the most socially inappropriate places'. Mrs. Adams's face fell a little at the realization that she wouldn't marry Elizabeth off to a fabulously rich man if what Bailey said was the case. However, her mood brightened once more after she told herself that she needn't worry about Elizabeth finding a suitable man to marry. It was Bailey that was the problem here.

"Well, I daresay Mr. Molyneux will perhaps embolden you to acquire some respectable company for once, Bailey," she snorted. She turned to Amon and Bailey suddenly grew nervous. "He probably hasn't told you this, Mr. Molyneux, but he is completely hopeless when it comes to finding a proper girl for a wife. We both know he isn't going to be getting any younger. And I am certainly not going to be around forever to take care of him. He needs a wife! Don't you want your mother to see some beautiful grandchildren before she dies, Bailey? Surely you know what I'm talking about, my good sir."

"I'm sure he does, Mother," Bailey said quickly. At this point, he wanted to make sure his mother wasn't going to be the next on Amon's black list. "But as riveting as this conversation is, you cannot monopolize Mr. Molyneux's attention. I still have yet to introduce him to my friends."

Without waiting for his mother to open her large mouth, Bailey took Amon by the upper arm and led him away toward slightly more pleasant company.

Bailey must have the patience of a God to deal with so much publicity so effortlessly, Amon thought. In the span of two minutes wave after wave of guests seemed to flock in their direction and Amon certainly dealt no complaint when Bailey took the lead. With a frozen smile, the peasant watched his love work the masses, answering everything with an automatic statement and often explaining and re-explaining some trivial fact to whomever asked. In the meantime, all Amon was expected to do was stand there and smile. Look pleasant, which became more and more difficult with every new face.

He wanted to grab Bailey and flee for the outside world. Get away from this suffocating room and all the bright lights and colors that swarmed inside it. Escape from all the loud, boisterous music and the artificial laughter before it consumed them body and soul, but never made a gesture towards it. Bailey wanted him to be like these people, didn't he? To be more like him? He'd do it. He'd do whatever made him happy, he would. He just… didn't want to lose him again. He didn't want to be alone.

He needed a drink, he reasoned. A glass of scotch or something heavy, otherwise he wouldn't be able to handle much more of this attention. His hands were all ready fidgeting amongst themselves and Amon could feel his heart tremble with excitement. He wanted so desperately to leave it almost left him feeling ill to his stomach, but they couldn't leave just yet. No, he wasn't really expecting them to. But if he could just convince Bailey to leave with him to an empty room perhaps—

A massive blob of flesh robbed him of his thoughts and Amon clenched his jaw to keep from snapping at the vaguely familiar woman grabbing on to Bailey like that. Who the hell was she? How dare she stand so close to him?! His blood boiled with accusation but one word managed to subdue the savage beast before it could break free from Amon's restraint; Mother.

Suddenly the man's body fell into a deep calm and the brunette bowed his head slightly in respect to the giant pig, the corners of his lips curled into the most refined of smiles. He wanted to gouge out her thick throat.

With Bailey nudging him so suddenly, having not been following along with much of the conversation seeing how the party thus far required him to keep his mouth shut anyway, Amon gave the redhead a puzzled look then quickly plastered on a half smile to compliment the odd laughter that came from him. Bailey had a wondrous laugh. It was a shame it was forced at the moment, but, losing track of the conversation yet again, Amon couldn't help wishing for the chance he could make the man genuinely happy! To bring out pure joy that wasn't just a part of the show.

Amon redirected his gaze to Mrs. Adams now that he was addressed. It was impossible that such a beautiful man could ever be born from this… rippling monstrosity. Her voice didn't share the same melody as Bailey's nor did her appearance have any similarities with him! It was mind boggling. This couldn't really be his mother, could it? Amon sucked in a breath. No, no, he'd have to drown this all out. He had to give this woman his attention now.

"Is he?" It was the first time words left his mouth the entire evening. Bailey managed to kill the discussion before any other words followed and Amon let himself be dragged out of Mrs. Adams' presence. His smile was no where to be seen. All the street rat could do was direct a smoldering glare into nothingness. A wife… a wife…!

Amon grabbed Bailey by the waist—about the only place he could grab onto with one of his arms captured in such a way—and quickly pushed him into the only available corner in the entire bloody building that wasn't all ready occupied. "A wife?" He hissed. He had forgotten to let go on him. "You can't. You can't take a wife!"

He didn't know what would happen if he did. He wouldn't be able to stay at his home, for one. He himself hadn't any set place for Bailey to visit if he ever found the time. A wife would ruin everything he worked so hard for! Bailey couldn't hope for some dirty hag to take care of him. It—it wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair!

Just as his anger was beginning to peak, Amon managed enough common sense to let Bailey go, more out of fear that he would hurt him physically than how hurt his reputation might be if anyone paid enough attention to them to see such an act. "I won't let you do that. I'll burn London to the ground if you do."

Bailey had been under the brief misconception that he was, for once, in charge of the situation as he led Amon along, but he soon realized that he was sorely mistaken when he felt an arm snake around his waist and pull him forcibly into a corner. Bailey inexorably found himself staring up into smooth honey-brown eyes shining with fury. He hardly registered what Amon was saying as all of his senses immediately concentrated on their point of contact. The first thing he did was to look frantically around to see if anyone could see this vulgar display. Once it was confirmed that everyone was too busy worrying about their own appearances, Bailey's second thought was immediately repulsed by the third thought which believed the second thought was being completely inappropriate. The second thought then slinked away sullenly into a dark corner of Bailey mind. Once this happened, Bailey's flushed face returned to its normal pasty color and he had the sudden urge to introduce his fist to Amon's face if he didn't let go anytime soon. However, rationality kicked in and Bailey reasoned that fisticuffs would not aid him in the least. One, because they were still in a public place and two, because Bailey had never thrown a punch in his life. Unfortunately, all of these trains of thought inevitably collided with each other, leaving Bailey merely frozen on the spot, feeling shocked and baffled.

Luckily, Bailey was spared from having to make a decision when Amon released his hold on him. At this point, with Amon's arm gone from his waist, Bailey finally processed the words.

"What are you _talking_ about?" he hissed back, returning Amon's glare with one of his own. He truly wanted to shout, but his words came out in an angry whisper instead. The blood that had previously been in his cheeks was suddenly in the back of his neck. "Would you get a hold of yourself for a minute? There is absolutely no need to be burning cities, especially at a respectable party like this! Not that you should or that I encourage you to care in the least bit, but I am _not _taking a wife. _Ever_! Now will you calm down? We can talk about this _later_! Do you see what I just did? I said "_talk_"! In high society, we only resort to physical means of expressing our emotions when it is of the utmost importance to defend our honor while you, on the other hand, are ready to set fire to London just because you're too childish to realize that I have a reputation to keep! Though at this point, I may just have to slap you with my gloves and shoot you now with the way things are going!"

Although it was probably a poor decision, Bailey extracted himself from the corner and stormed off to some room away from Amon. He needed to cool down and being around Amon would help him do nothing of the sort. As he strode away, he realized what he had just said. "I am not taking a wife ever." That did it. It had been said, albeit to an insane person. There was no doubt now that, inside or outside of Bailey's mind, he would never be interested or willing to live the life that was expected of him. He could never explain himself to anyone and he would die alone in his own estate, without children or a companion to support him through his old age. And the worst part about it was that even if he got married, nothing was stopping him from secretly committing adultery with other women. The fact of the matter was that he was just not sexually interested in women. All of the courting he had done was just part of his fantasy world. It would have been foolish of him to think that it ever existed past the day when he had found the first heart.

The truth was that he was homosexual.

His cravat was suddenly too tight and the rooms too cramped. His surroundings seemed to swim before his eyes and he had to put his shaking hand to the wall to support himself. Avoiding eye contact with anyone, he managed to rapidly disengage himself from whatever conversation other guests desired to have with him and stumbled his way toward the French doors that opened up into the back gardens where there was surely a plentiful amount of freezing air to send him into a slightly more peaceful hypothermic state.


End file.
